iH 


^ir  "^ 


TLATS  OF  TO-'T>Ar  tAND    TO-MORROfV 


LADT  TATRICIA 


"PLJIYS  OF  TO.TiAY  JlV^D  VO-^^ORROW. 


DON.     By  Rudolf  Besier. 

"  Mr.  Besier  is  a  man  who  can  see  and  think  for  himself,  and 
constructs  as  setting  for  the  result  of  that  activity  a  form  of  his 
own.  The  construction  of  '  Don  '  is  as  daring'as  it  is  original." 
— Mr.  Max  Beerbohm  in  The  Saturday  Review. 

"  It  is  a  fresh  and  moving  story  .  .  .  and  full  of  good  things." 
—Mr.  A.  B.  Walkley  in  The  Times. 

"  '  Don  '  is  a  genuine  modern  comedy,  rich  in  observation  and 
courage,  and  will  add  to  the  author's  reputation  as  a  sincere 
dramatist." — Mr.  E.  F.  Spence  in  The  Westminster  Gazette. 

"  If  the  essence  of  drama  be  conflict,  the  wrestle  of  will,  then 
'  Don,'  by  Rudolf  Besier,  comes  as  near  as  any  play  I  know  to 
essential  drama.  It  is  a  sparring  match  in  heaven  knows  how 
many  rounds." — Mr.  William  Archer  in  The  Nation. 

THE  EARTH.     By  James  B.  Fagan. 

"  A  magnificent  play — at  one  and  the  same  time  a  vital  and 
fearless  attack  on  political  fraud,  and  a  brilliantly  written 
strong  human  drama.  Moreover,  the  lighter  interludes  are 
written  with  a  brilliance  and  a  polished  humour  with  which 
one  had  not  credited  Mr.  Fagan  hitherto." — The  Daily  Chronicle. 

"  '  The  Earth  '  must  conquer  every  one  by  its  buoyant  irony, 
its  pungent  delineations,  and  not  least  by  its  rich  stores  of 
simple  and  wholesome  moral  feeling.  .  .  .  The  credit  may  be 
equally  divided  between  the  vivacity  and  iridescence  of  its 
witty  and  trenchant  dialogue  and  the  tenacious  grip  of  its 
searching  and  most  substantial  issues." — The  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"An  interesting  and  remarkable  achievement." — The  West- 
minster Gazette. 

LONDON  :  T.  FISHER  UNWIN. 
NEW  YORK:   DUFFIELD   &   CO. 


LADT 
T  ATRICI A 

c/f  COMEDT  i:hi  THREE    ^CFS 


B7 


%UDOLF   "BESIEIl 


Author  of  "  'Don ' 


NEfF  rORKw   DUFFIELD  ^   COMPANT 
36-38    WEST  37M   STREET 


TO 
ELIZABETH   FAGAN 


(All  rights  reserved.) 


CHAEACTERS 

Dean  Lesley 

Michael  Coswat 

William  O'Farrel  (Bill) 

Baldwin 

Ellis 

John 

Lady  Patricia  Coswat 

Mrs.  O'Farrel 

Clare  Lesley 


M165907 


The  Cast  of  the  play  as  it  was  produced  at  the  Hay- 
market  Theatre,  London,  on  March  22,  1911,  under 
the  management  of  Mr,  Herbert  Trench. 


Dean  Lesley  ... 
Michael  Cosway 
Bill  O'Farrel 

Baldwin  

EUis      

John      

Lady  Patricia  Cosway 

Mrs.  O'Farrel 

Clare  Lesley 


Mr.  Eric  Lewis 
Me.  Arthur  Wontner 
Mr.  Charl.es  Maude 
Mr.  C.  V.  France 
Mr.  Dickson  Kenwin 
Mr.  Norman  Page 
Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell 
Miss  Rosina  Filippi 
Miss  Athene  Seyler 


SCENERY 


The  First  Act. 


The  platform  and  summer-house  built  on  an  oak-tree  in 

the    grounds    of    ••Ultima    Thule,"    Michael    Cos  way's 

country  seat  at  Norman  Arches. 


The  Second  Act. 
The  same. 

The  Third  Act. 
The  Deanery  garden,  Norman  Arches. 


Five  weeks  elapse  between  Acts  I.  and  II.,  and  one  night 
between  Acts  II.  and  III. 


THE  FIRST  ACT 


CAUTION 

Professionals  and  Amateurs  are  hereby  warned  that 
'^LADY  PATRICIA,"  being  fully  protected  under  the 
Copyright  Laws  of  the  United  States,  is  subject  to  royalty, 
and  anyone  presenting  the  play  without  the  consent  of  the 
author  or  his  authorized  agent  will  be  liable  to  the  penalties 
by  law  provided.  Application  for  the  right  to  produce 
"  LADY  PATRICIA  "  must  be  made  to  Charles  Frohman, 
Empi/re  Theatre,  New  York  City. 

[ALL  BiaHTS  BESZBVED] 


THE  FIRST  ACT 


THE    FIRST    ACT 

The  scene  shows  the  summer-house  and  platform 
built  in  an  oak-tree  at  "  Ultima  Thule.''  The 
stage,  slightly  raised,  represents  the  platform. 
In  the  right-hand  corner  is  the  summer-house, 
built  on  branches  a  few  feet  higher  than  the 
platform.  The  entrance  to  the  platform  is 
through  a  square  hole,  reached  by  a  ladder 
from  beneath.  The  tree,  a  vast,  ancient,  and 
mossy  oak,  comes  straight  through  the  centre 
of  the  platform,  its  branches  spreading  aloft  in 
every  direction. 


(Lady   Patricia,   in   a   loose   and    exi 

costume,  lies  full  length  in  a  deck-chair, 
reading  aloud  from  some  beautiful  vellum 
MSS.  She  is  a  woman  of  about  thirty-five, 
languid,  elegant,  exotic,  romantic,  and  sen- 
timental. Beside  her  is  a  tall  vase  with 
arum-lilies  and  a  table  with  a  samovar. 
It  is  a  late  afternoon  in  May.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Reading  with  fine  feeling.) 

Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 

Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore 

11 


12  LADY  PATRICIA 

Alont  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individital  life  shall  I  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forebore — 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm 

(Ellis,  the  footman,  enters  carrying  a  tray 
with  a  cup  and  saucer,  and  some  sliced 
lemon.  Lady  Patricia  raises  her  hand 
to  command  silence.  He  stands  rigid. 
She  continues  with  scarcely  a  break:) 

The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  hand  in  mine, 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grape.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself.  He  hears  that  name  of  thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two   .   .   . 

(A  pause ;  she  repeats  in  a  deep  voice) 

And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two   .    .    . 
.    .    .   the  tears  of  two   .   .    . 

What  is  it,  Browning? 

(Ellis  stands  motionless ;  a  pause;  she  looks 
round  at  him.) 

Did  I  call  you  Browning  ?  How  absurd  !  I  meant 
Ellis.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  tea  !  Yes,  of  course.  Please 
put  everything  near  me  on  the  table. 

(He  does  so.) 


LADY  PATRICIA  13 

(She     repeats     dreamily)      .    .   .  the     tears     of 
two.    .   .    . 

Ellis. 

I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lady? 

Lady  Pateicia. 

Nothing.     I  will  look  after  myself. 

(Ellis  turns  to  go.) 

Oh,  Ellis.   .  .   . 

Ellis. 

Yes,  my  lady? 

Lady  Pateicia. 

You  have  brought  only  one  cup. 

Ellis. 

I  thought  you  were  taking  tea  by  yourself,  my 
lady. 

Lady  Pateicia. 

Please  bring  another  cup. 

Ellis. 

Yes,  my  lady.     And  milk  and  cream,  my  lady? 

Lady  Pateicia. 

Milk  and  cream.    .    .    .    (After  a  dreamy  pause.) 
Yes,  I  am  afraid  so.     But  don't  put  it  on  the  table. 


14  LADY   PATRICIA 

Hide  it  in  the  summer-house.     And  will  you  send 
Baldwin  to  me? 

Ellis. 

Yes,  my  lady. 

(He  goes  out.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Turns  over   the  pages  of  a  MS.,  and   then 
reads  with  thrilling  beauty.) 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  m^e. 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor   shady   cypress- tree. 
Be  green  the  grass  above  me, 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet. 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember. 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  ram, 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on  as  if  in  pain. 
And  dreiaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  or  set. 
Haply  I  may  remember. 

And  haply  may  forget. 

(With  dramatic  emphasis.) 
When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest 


LADY  PATRICIA  15 

(Enter  Baldwin,  a  gardener  of  about  seventy, 
heavy,  slow,  phlegmatic.) 

Baldwin. 

(In  spite  of  Lady  Patricia's  raised  hand . )    Beg 
pardon,  m'lady? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Sing    no    sad    songs (Fretfully.)      Oh, 

Baldwin,    what    do    you    want? 

Baldwin. 

Mr.  Ellis  said  as  you  wished  to  speak  to  me, 
mum. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Mr.  Ellis?     .     .     .    Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now. 
What  is  it  I  wanted  to  tell  you? 

Baldwin. 

Mr.  Ellis  didn't  make  mention,  m'lady. 

Lady  Patricia. 

How  stupid  of  him  !     (She  regards  Baldwin 
dreamily.)     Baldwin   ... 

Baldwin. 

Yes,  'um? 

Lady  Patricia. 

You  ought  to  be  very  happy. 


16  LADY  PATKICIA 

Baldwin. 
Yes,  'um. 

Lady  Pateicia. 

Very  happy.  Because  you  are  a  gardener.  I 
can  imagine  no  calling  more  beautiful.  You  are 
the  father  of  innumerable  children,  and  they  are 
all  lovely. 

Baldwin. 

Thank  'ee,  m'lady.  I've  'ad  thirteen — and  two 
of  'em  by  my  first  wife. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Thir-teen  !  .  .  .  Good  heavens,  Baldwin,  what 
are  you  talking  about? 

Baldwin. 

You  made  mention  of  my  family,  m'lady. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Oh,  but  I  meant  the  flowers  you  tend  and  rear. 
The  gillyflowers  and  eglantine,  myrtle,  rosemary, 
columbine,  and  daffydowndillies.  Not  —  how 
strange  and  dreadful  !      Thirteen  ! 

Baldwin. 

I've  'eard  tell  that  thirteen's  an  unlucky  number, 
m'lady.     But  I  ain't  suspicious. 

Lady  Patricia. 
Suspicious  ? 


,  LADY  PATRICIA  17 

^< 
Baldwin. 

Yes,  'um.  And  if  I  was,  fac's  won't  change  for 
the  wishin'.  Thirteen  *s  the  number,  and  thirteen 
it's  like  to  remain,  seeing  as  Mrs.  Baldwin's  turned 
sixty  -three . 

Lady  Patricia. 

I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand  what  you're 
talking  about. 

Baldwin. 
I 

Lady  Patricia. 

You  needn't  repeat  it.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  remember  now 
why  I  sent  for  you,  Baldwin.  I  wonder  if,  with- 
out hurting  the  beauty  of  the  tree,  you  could  open 
a  window  to  the  sunset? 

Baldwin. 

Open  a  winder?   ... 

Lady  Patricia. 

You  don't  understand  me?  Let  me  put  it 
differently  !  I  should  like  you  to  cut  away  some 
of  the  foliage  so  that  I  can  watch  the  sun  dropping 
behind  the  hills. 

Baldwin. 

Yes,  m'lady.     But 


18  LADY   PATRICIA 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say.  When  we 
built  this  place  in  the  tree,  I  gave  you  special 
directions  not  to  touch  the  western  foliage  as  it 
hid  the  view  of  Ashurst  Manor,  which  I  found 
distressingly  unsightly.  Yes  !  But  since  my 
aunt,  Mrs.  O'Farrel,  has  taken  the  house,  it  seems 
to  me  far  less  offensive.  Likes  and  dislikes  are, 
after  all,  so  much  a  matter  of  temperament  and 
association  !  The  former  owner  was  an  impossible 
person . 

Baldwin. 

The  Scotch  gentleman? 

Lady  Patricia. 

He  was  a  Jew,  Baldwin,  though  his  name  was 
Mackintosh.  I  don't  wish  to  speak  of  him.  When 
you  cut  the  foliage,  please  use  restraint  and  feel- 
ing. On  no  account  disfigure  the  tree.  Watch 
from  this  spot  the  sun  going  down,  and  lop  away 
a  little  branch  here  and  a  little  branch  there,  so  as 
to  give  me  some  perfect  glimpses  of  gold  and  rose. 

(Ellis    enters    with    cup    and    saucer,    milk, 
cream,  whisky,  soda,  and  a  tumbler.) 

Baldwin. 

Yes,  'm. 

Lady  Patricia. 

(To  Ellis.)    What  have  you  got  there? 


LADY   PATRICIA  19 

Ellis. 

The  cup  and  saucer  and  the  milk  and  cream, 
my  lady.  And  I  thought  I  had  better  bring 
whisky  and  soda  as  well,  my  lady. 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  never  told  you  to.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be 
so  enterprising.  Please  hide  it  with  the  cream  in 
the  summer-house.  (Ellis  does  so.)  So  you 
think  I  can  safely  trust  you  with  this  important 
piece  of  work,  Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 
Yes,  'm.  (Ellis  goes  out.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

Do  it  as  soon  as  possible,  as  I  shall  often  be 
sitting  here  during  these  adorable  summer  even- 
ings— 

(Bill  O'Farrel  enters  during  the  rest  of 
her  sentence.  lie  is  a  wholesome,  typically 
English  young  man  of  about  twenty - 
six.) 

— and  I  couldn't  bear  to  miss  many  sunsets  like 
yesterday's. 

Bill. 

Patricia  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 
I  (Without  rising.)     Bill  ! 


20  LADY  PATRICIA 

Bill. 

(Seizing  her  hands.)    Patricia  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

Bill  !   .   .    .  That  will  do,  Baldwin. 

Bill. 

Quite  well,  Baldwin  ? 

Baldwin. 

Pretty  middlin',  Mr.  O'Farrel,  sir,  thank  you. 
.  .  .  Then  it  don't  matter  showin*  up  Ashurst 
Manor,  m'lady? 

Bill. 

(With  a  laugh,  to  Patricia.)  Hullo  !  what's 
this? 

Lady  Patricia. 

No,  no,  Baldwin  !  I  wish  to  see  it.  It  has 
suddenly  grown  beautiful  !     A  fairy  palace  I 

Bill. 

Great  Scott  I 

Baldwin. 

Yes,  'm.     But 


Lady  Patricia. 

That  will  do,  Baldwin 


LADY  PATRICIA  21 

Baldwin. 

Yes,  'm.  (He  goes  out,) 

Bill. 

What's  this  about  Ashurst? 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  have  asked  Baldwin  to  cut  away  some  of  those 
branches  so  that  I  can  see  it.  I  used  to  loathe  the 
sight  of  the  house.  Then  your  mother  bought  it, 
and  I  liked  it.  I  love  it  now  that  you  have  come 
to  stay  there.    .    .   .  You  may  kiss  me,  Bill. 

Bill. 

May  I?  (He  kisses  her  forehead.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

You  may  kiss  me  again. 

Bill. 

May  I?  (He  kisses  her  cheek.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

You  may  kiss  me  again. 

Bill. 

Patricia  !  (He  kisses  her  mouth.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Clinging  to  him.)  Oh,  how  I've  longed  for  this 
moment — how  I've  longed  for  it  I   .   .    .  All  these 


22  LADY  PATRICIA 

weary  months  I've  lived  in  the  past  and  future, 
on  memories  and  anticipations.  Now,  at  last  I 
have  the  present — I  have  reality — you — to  have 
and  to  hold — you — you.    .    .    .   Kiss  me. 

Bill. 

(Embracing  her  ardently.)    Patricia  ! 

Lady  Pateicia. 

Hush  I  (Disengaging  herself.)  We  mustn't  be 
foolish.  ...  Sit  down.  .  .  .  (He  sits  at  her 
feet.)     So  you  got  my  telegram? 

Bill. 

Directly  the  boat  came  alongside.  But  it  took 
me  a  deuce  of  a  time  to  make  out  !  My  French  is 
a  bit  rusty,  and  the  rotters  had  jumbled  up  some 
of  the  words.  As  it  is,  I  only  made  out  the  gist 
of  it — to  take  an  earlier  train  from  London  than 
I'd  intended,  and  to  call  on  you  before  going  on 
to  Ashurst,  as  I'd  find  you  alone  in  a  summer- 
house  you'd  built  on  some  tree  or  other.  The 
twiddly  bits  of  the  message  didn't  somehow  seem 
to  make  sense   .    .    . 

Lady  Patricia. 

The   .    .   .  twiddly  bits? 

Bill. 

Yes  ;  something  about  a  star  in  red  water,  and 
horses  with  white  manes.  Couldn't  make  it  out 
at  all. 


LADY  PATRICIA  23 

Lady  Patricia. 

That  was  a  quotation  from  De  Musset,  my  poor 
boy. 

Bill. 

Great  Scott  !  I  thought  it  was  a  cypher.  People 
don't  generally  quote  poetry  in  their  telegrams. 

Lady  Patricia. 
I  do. 

Bill. 

In  any  case,  it  seemed  to  me  a  bit  rash  of  you 
to  send  the  wire  at  all — even  in  French. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Oh,  did  it  ?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  used  French, 
not  to  conceal  the  message,  but  because  the  lan- 
guage seemed  to  me  so  beautifully  .appropriate 
for  making  a  clandestine  meeting. 

Bill. 

By  Jove  !     Fancy  thinking  of  that  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

To  sin  beautifully  is  the  less  a  sin.  Don't 
forget,  dear,  that,  however  innocent,  our  love  is 
wrong.  We  should  never  neglect  an  opportunity 
of  lennobling  it  with  little  touches  of  beauty,  should 
we? 


24  LADY  PATRICIA 

Bill. 

Rather  not !   ...  So  Michael's  away  ? 

Lady  Pateicia. 

Only  this  afternoon.  He  has  gone  to  a  garden 
party  at  the  Fitzger aids'.  Your  mother's  there  as 
well.  Everybody's  there.  But  I  wanted  to  see 
you  for  a  little  while  before  any  one  else,  so  I 
sent  you  that  wire  and  pretended  a  headache. 
A  petty  deceit  that  avenged  itself  !  For  directly 
I  told  it,  I  felt  a  slight  twinge  of  neuralgia. 

Bill. 

Hard  luck  !     But  it's  better,  dear,  isn't  it? 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  suppose  it  is.  But  you  mustn't  say  "hard 
luck."  My  life,  alas  !  is  so  full  of  deceits  that 
when  one  of  them  is  punished,  I  always  try  to 
be  grateful.  But  tell  me  now,  about  yourself — 
everything  that  has  happened  these  last  months. 
Your  letters  have  been  too  full  of  facts  to  tell 
me  anything.  And  I  do  so  long  to  hear  all  your 
news.    ... 

Bill. 

Patricia.    ... 

Lady  Patricia. 
Yes,  dear? 


LADY  PATRICIA  25 

Bill. 

What  an  awfully  good  woman  you  are  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

Am  I  ?   ...  I  wonder  ! 

Bill. 

And  your  eyes  are  simply  ripping. 

Lady  Patricia. 
Are  they? 

Bill. 

And  your  hands,  by  Jove  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

What  of  my  hands,  dear? 

Bill. 

They're  simply  ripping. 

Lady  Patricia^ 

Dear  heart  !  (Stroking  his  head.)  Dear  soft 
hair.     But  I'm  waiting. 

Bill. 

Oh  yes,  I  forgot.  But  there  really  ain't  much 
to  tell  that  I  haven't  told  you  in  my  letters. 
I  arrived  in  New  York  on  a  Saturday  after  an 
awfully  jolly  passage.  Those  big  Cunarders  are 
corking  boats.      Had   a   bit   of   a   dust-up   at  Ifche 


26  LADY  PATRICIA 

Customs,  but  I  squared  the  chap  with  a  ten -dollar 
bill.  A  chap  on  board  advised  me  to  put  up  at 
the  Waldorf-Astoria.  He  told  me  it  was  one  of 
their  swaggerest  hotels,  but  I  must  say 

Lady  Pateicia. 

{Laughing .)  Yes,  yes,  dear,  you've  told  me  all 
that  before  !  And  about  the  nigger  waiter  whose 
thumb  was  always  in  the  soup — and  the  Californian 
peach  as  big  as  a  baby's  head — and  the  factory 
that  was  burned  down  in  Chicago — and  the  card- 
sharper  who  tried  to  swindle  you  at  poker,  **  but 
he  got  hold  of  the  wrong  chap,  by  Jove  !  " — and 
so  many  other  thrilling  details.  {Almost  with 
passion,  taking  his  face  in  her  hands.)  You  dar- 
ling !     Oh,  you  darling  ! 

Bill. 

I  thought  I'd  told  you  everything. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Of  course  you  did — everything.  (With  far-off 
eyes.)  I  wonder  why  I  am  so  foolish  as  to  expect 
the  essentials  from  you — those  labourings  of  the 
soul  at  midnight,  yearnings,  ecstasies,  and  long, 
long  thoughts  under  the  stars.  If  you  had  been 
capable  of  these  I  should  never  have  loved  you. 
It's  just  your  simplicity  and  eternal  boyishness 
that  took  my  heart.  Poor  Michael's  spiritual 
nature,  his  dreams,  his  subtlety,  his  devotion,  never 
touched  me  deeper  than  the  intellect.  I  mistook 
sympathy    for    love — I    seemed    to    have    found    a 


LADY  PATKICIA  27 

kindred  spirit — I  married  him.  Yes  !  we  are  all 
born  to  suffer  and  endure.  .  .  .  Which  reminds 
me,  my  poor  dear  boy,  you  must  be  dying  for  tea. 
(Pouring  out  the  tea.)  I  hope  you  had  some 
lunch  ? 

Bill. 

Eather  I  I  had  a  luncheon -basket  in  the  train, 
and  put  away  the  best  part  of  a  chicken,  among 
other  things. 

Lady  Patricia. 

How  young  and  hungry  you  are  I 

(Hands  him  a  cup  of  tea  with  a  lemon  slice 
in  the  saucer .) 

Bill. 

I  say  !   .    .   . 

Lady  Patricia. 
Yes,  dear? 

Bill.  ^ 

Have  you  any  milk  or  cream  ? 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Sorrowfully.)     Oh,  Bill !   .   .   . 

Bill. 

I  can't  help  it.  This  Russian  mess  ain't  a 
Christian  drink.  I  can't  think  how  you  can 
swallow  it. 


28  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  don't  suppose  I  like  it  any  better  than  you, 
dear.     But  the  mixture  of  cream  and  tea,  as  I  have 

often  told  you,  produces  an  odious  colour — and  I 

refuse    to    encourage   it.  You   should   try   to    do 

likewise.    .    .    .   However,  you   will  find  cream  in 
the  summer-house. 

Bill. 

Eight -ho  !  (Goes  into  summer-house.)  Hullo  ! 
Good  man  !  Here's  whisky-and-soda.  (Talking 
in  the  summer-house,  half  to  himself,  half  to  her.) 
That's  the  stuff  !  Nothing  like  a  syphonated  spot 
when  one's  got  a  real  thirst  !  No  tea  for  me, 
thanks. 

Lady  Patricia. 

(To  herself,  smiling.)     Dear  babbler.    .    .    . 

Bill. 

(Coming  dCwn,  a  glassful  in  his  hand.)     Here's 
to  you,  Patricia  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

(In  a  deep  voice,  looking  into  eternity.)     We 
are  all  born  to  suffer,  to  endure,  to  renounce   .    .    . 

Bill. 

Oh,  well  !  I'll  drink  that  Russian  stuff  if  you 
like. 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  was  not  thinking  of  tea.    I  was  thinking  of  life. 


LADY  PATRICIA  29 

Bill. 

(Unfeignedly  relieved.)  Yes,  it's  an  awfully 
hard  world.  (Takes  a  long  draught.)  By  Jove, 
that's  clinking  good  I 

Lady  Pateicia. 

It  becomes  more  and  more  difficult  to  play  my 
part,  and  return  Michael's  love,  which  seems  to 
grows  stronger  and  deeper  day  by  day.  His  eyes 
follow  my  every  movement,  his  mind  anticipates 
my  every  wish,  he  surrounds  me  with  an  atmosphere 
of  passionate  worship.  Few  women  have  ever 
received  such  love.  It  is  the  love  that  poets  dream 
of — the  love  that  must  follow  those  marriages  that 
are  made  in  heaven. 

Bill. 

Good  Lord,  it's  awfully  rough  on  you  ! 

Lady  Pateicia. 

I  think  and  I  think  and  I  think,  but  I  can  see 
no  solution  to  the  mystery.  Surely  love  is  the 
best  gift  of  God,  and  that  such  love  as  Michael's — 
so  noble,  so  pure,  so  unselfish — should  be  utterly 
wasted,  is  inconceivable.  It  must  be  that  I  am 
unworthy.  (She  pauses  expectantly.) 

Bill. 

And  it  puts  me  in  such  a  rotten  position.  If 
Michael  treated  you  badly,  I  shouldn't  care  a  rap 
how  much  I  made  love  to  you. 


30  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Patricia. 

(With  slight  asperity.)  Can  it  be  that  I  am 
unworthy  ? 

Bill. 

As  it  is  I  often  feel  such  a  beastly  cad.    .    .    . 

Lady  Patricia. 

Then  you  think  me  unworthy? 

Bill. 
I? 

Lady  Patricia. 

You  never  denied  it. 

Bill. 

But  I  didn't  know  you  wanted  me  to  !  You're 
worthy  of  anything  !     You  know  that  1 

Lady  Patricia. 

Dear,  dear  boy  !  But  am  I  ?  I  wonder  ! 
Heaven  only  knows  how  desperately  I  tried  to  love 
him,  and  when  I  found  it  impossible,  how  I  never 
faltered  in  pretending  a  love  equal  to  his.  And 
I  knew  that  it  would  kill  him  should  he  learn 
the  truth.  But  if  the  part  I  played  was  difficult 
before  you  came,  after  you  came,  and  I  knew  what 
love  was,  it  was  almost  beyond  my  power.  And 
yet  I  drew  strength  somehow,  not  only  to  resist 
temptation  and  keep  our  love  pure,  but  never  by 
word,  deed,  or  expression  to  let  Michael  suspect 


LADY   PATRICIA  31 

for  one  moment  that  his  devotion  was  not  returned. 
Yes  !  I  think  a  woman  who  has  done  all  this 
cannot   be   altogether   unworthy. 

Bill. 

You're — ^you're   a   saint — you're   an   angel  ! 

Lady  Pateicia. 
Am  I  ?     I  wonder  ! 

Bill. 

You  really  are  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

Dear,  inarticulate  boy  !  .  .  .  And,  Bill,  remem- 
ber this.  We  have  put  our  hands  to  the  plough, 
and  there  must  be  no  turning  back.  The  martyr- 
dom which  must  be  lifelong  has  only  just  begun. 
I  feel  I  shall  find  strength  to  play  my  bitter  role 
to  the  final  curtain.  For  I  love  renunciation, 
endurance,  and  purity.  They  are  such  exquisite 
virtues.  And  virtue  is  very  beautiful.  .  .  .  But 
you  are  made  of  more  earthly  materials,  my  poor 
boy.  Do  you  realise  that  your  love  must  always 
remain  unsatisfied?  Can  you  love  me  without  the 
faintest  hope  of  more  reward  than  a  look,  a  touch, 
a  kiss  ?   .   .   . 

Bill. 

That's  all  right,  Patricia.  Don't  you  worry 
about  me. 


32  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Patricia. 

But    you    are    young    and    vigorous    and    pas- 
sionate.   .    .    . 

Bill. 

That's  all  right ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  can  only  offer  you  the  shadow  ;    your  nature 
will  some  day  cry  out  for  the  substance. 

Bill. 
Not  it ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

Ah,  if  only  I  had  the  strength  and  courage  to 
bid  you  good-bye  for  ever  1 

Bill. 

I  shouldn't  go. 

Lady  Patricia. 
Ah,  Bill!   .   .   . 

(She  invites  his  caress  with  a  beautiful  move- 
ment. Kneeling  beside  her,  he  gathers  her 
in  his  arms  and  kisses  her.  At  that 
moment  Baldwin  enters,  carrying  a  saw 
and  a  pair  of  shears.  They  are  blissfully 
unconscious  of  his  presence.  He  glances 
at  them  with  complete  indifference,  then 
comes  down  looking  carefully  at  the  sky 


LADY  PATRICIA  33 

on  the  right,  his  head  dodging  from  side 
to  side  as  though  he  were  spying  for  some- 
thing a?nong  the  branches.) 

Baldwin. 

If  you  please,  'm.   .    .   . 

(Bill,  with  an  inarticulate  cry,  starts  to  his 
feet.) 

Bill. 

What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here? 

Lady  Pateicia. 

(Calmly.)    (Well,  Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

If  you  please,  m'lady,  I  thought  as  I  *ad  best 
watch  the  sun  early.  It's  close  on  six  'm,  and  I 
thought  as  p'raps  you'd  like  some  branches  lopped 
'igher  up.  The  sun's  a  fine  sight  at  six,  mum — 
much  more  light  in  it  than  a  hour  later,  an'  it's  a 
neasier  job  loppin'  they  'igher  branches  than  them 
out  there,  as  I  shan't  need  no  ladder. 

Bill. 

Quite  mad  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  don't  want  to  sit  here  and  look  at  the  sun 
through  a  pair  of  smoked  glasses.  You  may  return 
here  when  the  sun  is  lower. 

3 


34  LADY  PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

Yes,  m'lady.    But 

Lady  Pateicia. 
Go  away.   ... 

Baldwin. 

Yes,   'm.  (Re  goes  out.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

Very  tiresome,  isn't  he  ? 

Bill. 

I  don't  half  like  the  old  ass  catching  us  like 
that. 

Lady  Patricia. 
Catching  us? 

Bill. 

Yes,  fairly  caught  us  in  the  act.   .   .   . 

Lady  Patricia.  ' 

Bill ! 

Bill. 

Well,  he  must  have  seen  me  kiss  you.     I  don't 
half  like  it. 

Lady  Patricia. 

How  very  bourgeois  you  are  ! 

Bill. 

.Well,  I  don't  know  about  that.    But 


LADY  PATRICIA  35 

Lady  Pateicia. 

Not  bourgeois,  then  !  No,  no  !  Young  and  self- 
conscious  !  Fancy  getting  red  and  embarrassed 
because  a  gardener  saw  you  looking  affectionate  ! 
.  .  .  Dear,  dear  boy  !  .  .  .  Now  sit  down  again 
and  listen.  I  caught  an  impression  of  the  sunset 
yesterday,  a  few  lines,  but  I  believe  they  are 
precious — not  precieux — precious  in  the  true  sense 
of  the  word.  .  .  .  Don't  you  hate  this  modern 
artistic  jargon? 

Bill. 
Rather  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

Listen.   .    .    .    (She  recites.) 

A  dreamy  blue  invests  the  lonely  hill. 
Far  off  against  the  orient  green  and  cold; 
Silence  declines  upon  these  branches  old; 
The  level  land  is  still; 
The  lofty  azure  deepens;    faintlier  glows 
The  delicate  beauty  of  the  sunset  rose; 
And  pensive  grey  encroaches  on  the  gold. 

Tenderly  coloured,  are  they  not? 

Bill. 
Yours  ? 

Lady  Patricia. 
Mine. 


36  LADY  PATRICIA 

Bill. 
Ripping  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

Ripping.   .    .  Oh,   how   unpleasant !      Say  that 
other  word  instead. 

Bill. 

-What  word? 

Lady  Patricia. 

I    don't    quite    know.      Something    to    do    with 
bottles . 

Bill. 

Clinking? 

Lady  Patricia. 

No.    .    .    .   Something  to  do  with  wine.    .    .    . 

Bill. 

Oh  !    you  mean — corking. 

Lady  Patricia. 
Yes,  corking. 

Bill. 

Right -ho! 

Lady  Patricia. 

Thank   you,   dear.   .    .    .   And   so   you   like   my 
lines  ? 


LADY   PATRICIA  37 

Bill. 

They're  corking.  And  so's  your  voice  when  you 
read  'em. 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Dreamily .)  I  write  corking  verses,  and  I  read 
them  with  a  corking  voice.  (With  passion.)  Oh, 
Bill  !     Oh,  my  dear 

Bill. 

Yes?  '^ 

Lady  Patricia. 

How  I  wish  that  you  and  I  were  alone  on  a 
little  island  in  the  ^gean  Archipelago !  .  .  . 
Hush  !  (The  sound  of  a  motor  in  the  distance.) 
Do  you  hear  ?  A  motor  -car  coming  up  the  drive  ! 
You  can  see  if  you  look  through  the  branches  there . 
(Points  to  the  left.)  Be  careful,  dear.  Don't  let 
any  one  see  you. 

Bill. 

(Looking  over  the  rail  of  the  platform.)  Great 
Scott! 

Lady  Patricia. 

Yes? 

Bill. 

It's  the  mater's  car,  and 


(The   sound   of   the   motor   stops.) 


38  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Patricia. 

It's  stopping  !     Oh,  Bill 


Bill. 

The  mater  and  Michael,  and  the  Dean — and 
who's  the  jolly-looking  girl? 

Lady  Patricia. 

With  a  face  like  a  naughty  boy's? 

Bill. 

Yes. 

Lady  Patricia. 

That  must  be  Clare  Lesley.  Michael  has  been 
very  kind  to  her  lately.  He  is  trying  to  give  her 
a  serious  view  of  life. 

Bill. 

I  say,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that's  Clare, 
the  Dean's  daughter?  Why,  I  thought  she  was 
a  flapper  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 
A  flapper?   ... 

Bill. 

Yes.  When  last  I  saw  her,  a  little  more  than  a 
year  ago,  her  skirts  weren't  much  below  her  knees, 
and 


LADY  PATRICIA  39 

Lady  Patricia. 

Flapper.    .    .   .  What  a  strange  word  !     How  do 
you  spell  it?     With  a  "ph"? 

Bill. 

No,  with  a  double  p.     Hullo  ! 

(He  draws  hack.) 

Lady  Pateicia. 
What  is  it  ? 

Bill. 

They're  all  coming  here  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 
No  I 

Bill. 

They  are,  by  Jove  !     The  whole  crowd.     What 
shall  we  do? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Your  mother  and  Michael  mustn't  find  you  here. 
You  must  fly  ! 

Bill. 

That's  all  very  well.     But  where  can  I  go  to? 
They're  bound  to  spot  me  if  I  get  down  the  steps. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Oh,  but  can't  you  climb  somewhere  up  the  tree 
and  hide  yourself  like  a  bird  among  the  branches? 


40  LADY  PATRICIA 

Bill. 

What?  .   .   . 

Lady  Patricia. 

It's  the  only  thing  to  do.  And  so  simple  !  And 
so  romantic  ! 

Bill. 

lYes,  that's  all  right.  But  supposing  they  see 
me — what  am  I  to  say  ? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Oh,  anything  !  Use  a  little  imagination.  .  .  . 
Say  you  are  looking  for  birds'  eggs.  But  they 
won't  see  you  if  you  lie  along  that  thick  branch 
up  there. 

Bill. 

Birds' -nesting.    .    .   . 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  shall  pretend  to  be  asleep. 

Bill. 
Why? 

Lady  Patricia. 
Why  not? 

Bill. 

(Grumbling  as  he  moves  towards  the  trunk.) 
I'll  look  such  a  bally  ass  if  they  spot  me.   .    .   . 


LADY   PATRICIA  41 

Lady  Patricia. 
Bill! 

Bill. 
Eh? 

Lady  Patricia. 

This  glass  mustn't  be  found  here. 

Bill. 

By  Jove  ! 

(He  returns  and  takes  hold  of  the  glasSy  which 
is  half -full.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

And  the  cup  and  saucer.   ... 

Bill. 

Good  Lord  ! 

(He  stands  helplessly,  the  cup  and  saucer  in 
one  hand,  the  glass  in  the  other.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

Put  them  into  your  pockets. 

Bill. 
But 

Lady  Patricia. 

Quick — quick  !  (He  drinks  the  whisky.)  Now 
the  tea.  (He  makes  as  though  to  throw  it  away,) 
No  !    no  !    they  might  see  or  hear.     Drink  it. 


42  LADY  PATRICIA 

Bill. 

I  really  couldn't. 

Lady  Pateicia. 
For  my  sake. 

Bill. 

{Gulping  it  down.)     Muck!      {Making  for  the 
tree.)     By  Jove,  they're  nearly  here! 

Lady  Patricia. 

{Pointing   to    the   left.)      I   really   must   have 
another  ladder  built  on  this  side. 

Bill. 

I  hope  they  won't  see  me  climbing. 

{He  starts  climbing  the  tree.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

Be  small — for  my  sake.    .    .   . 

{She  composes  herself  elaborately  into  a  sleep- 
ing posture.  Bill  is  seen  disappearing  on 
high.  Voices  are  audible  beneath.  A 
pause.) 

Bill. 

{He  has  climbed  out  of  sight.)    I  say.   .   .    . 

Lady  Patricia. 
S-sh!   ... 


LADY   PATRICIA  43 

Bill. 

It's  all  right.      They're  standin'   about  talkin*. 
Can  you  see  me? 

Lady  Patricia. 
■Where  are  you? 

Bill. 
Here. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Oh,  yes,  I  see.    .    .    . 

Bill. 

The  devil  you  do  !     What  part  o'  me? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Er — well — your — your  back.    .    .   . 

Bill. 

Damn  !      Oh,    confound    this    beastly    cup    and 
saucer  !     Thej^  keep  on  rattling. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Put  the  saucer  in  the  other  pocket. 

Bill. 

The  glass  is  in  the  other  pocket. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Have  you  only  two  pockets  ? 


U  LADY  PATRICIA 

Bill. 

Hush  !   they're  coming. 

(The  voices  approach.  Lady  Patricia  ar- 
ranges herself,  one  hand  supporting  her 
face,  the  other  hanging  over  the  side  of 
the  chair  lightly  holding  a  manuscript. 
Mrs.  O'Farrel  enters,  followed  by  Clare 
Lesley,  Dean  Lesley,  and  Michael  Cos- 
way.  Mrs.  O'Farrel  is  a  genuine,  down- 
right, humorous  lady  of  fifty-seven ;  Clare 
Lesley,  the  Dean's  daughter,  a  pretty 
girl  of  about  twenty;  Dean  Lesley,  a 
clerical  exquisite,  who  carries  his  sixty 
years  as  lightly  as  his  silver -knobbed  stick 
and  monocle;  and  Michael  Cosway,  Lady 
Patricia's  husband,  a  tall,  serious  man 
of  thirty -eight.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

{Out  of  breath.)  Ah.  .  .  .  I'm  green  with 
envy  of  you,  Dean  !  You're  at  least  five  years  my 
senior,  and  your  wind  is  as  sound  as  your  doctrines. 
Look  at  me  !  I  can't  climb  a  tree  without  getting 
— what's  the  word,  Clare? 

Clare. 

Punctured. 

Dean. 

My  dear  child  ! 


LADY  PATRICIA  46 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Scold  me,  Dean,  scold  me  !     I  meant  the  word, 
but  hadn't  the  pluck  to  say  it. 

(The  Dean  laughs.) 
Michael. 

And    how    do   you    like   our    little   eyrie,   Mrs. 
O'Farrel? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Charming,  Michael,  charming  !  It's  quite  worth 
getting— getting— give  me  the  word,  Clare. 

Clare. 
Winded. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

(Laughs  and  pats  Clare's  cheek.)  Yes,  it's 
quite  worth  getting  punctured — and  winded — to  see 
the  view  from  here,  Michael.  How  like  you  and 
Patricia  to  think  of  such  a  piece  of  arboreal  senti- 
mentality !   Now  whose  idea (Perceives  Lady 

Patricia  for  the  first  time.)     Why,  Patricia  ! 

(Michael  with  an  exclamation  rushes  to  Lady 
Patricia's  side.     Clare  looks  bored.) 

Dean. 

Delightful  ! 

Michael. 

S-sh   .    .    .  She's  asleep.    .    .    . 


46  LADY   PATRICIA 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Asleep  !  I  should  think  she  was,  for  my  strident 
voice  not  to  awake  her  ! 

Clare. 

Perhaps  she's  shamming. 

Dean. 

My  dear  child  ! 

Michael. 

(In  a  solemn  whisper.)  We  must  be  very  careful 
not  to  wake  her.  She  had  a  bad  headache  this 
morning.  .  .  .  See  how  she  leans  her  cheek  upon 
her  hand! 

Dean. 

I  would  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
Dean  ! 

Clare. 
Shocking  ! 

Dean. 

And  why?  I  love  all  that  is  beautiful  with  all 
my  senses.    .    .    .  And  why  shouldn't  I? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Because  such  youthful  depravity  makes  me 
envious  again. 


LADY   PATRICIA  47 

Dean. 

Pardon  me,  my  dear  lady,  I  remember  you  far 
too  well  as  a  girl  to  believe  that  even  now 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

(Hastily.)  Michael  !  .  .  .  Will  you  and  Clare 
take  the  car  and  meet  Bill's  train?  It  won't  take 
you  ten  minutes  ;  I'm  too  comfortable  to  move  at 
present.  Besides,  we  must  have  the  place  to  our- 
selves, the  Dean  and  I,  as  he  is  becoming  indis- 
creetly reminiscent.  Bring  Bill  back  with  you 
here,  and  he  and  I  will  drive  home  together. 
.    .   .  You  don't  mind? 

Michael. 

I  shall  be  delighted. 

Clare. 

I'm  not  surprised  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me, 
pater,  if  you're  going  to  talk  about  your  gay  youth. 
You  must  have  been  an  awful  rip. 

Dean. 

Eeally,  Clare  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

It  was  my  gay  youth  your  father  was  threatening 
us  with. 

Clare. 

You  must  have  been  a  dear  then,  as  now  !   .    .    . 

{She  kisses  MRS.  O'Farrel  impulsively,  and 
goes  out  past  Michael.    Michael  follows 


48  LADY  PATRICIA 

hery  turns  and  comes  hack  with  a  twig 
of  oak  in  his  hand.  Re  gives  it  to  the 
Dean.) 

Michael. 

Will  you  kindly  keep  the  flies  off  Patricia's  face 
while  I'm  away? 

Dean. 

Oh,  delighted  !     Delighted  ! 

(Michael  goes  out.  Mrs.  O'Farrel  looks 
with  amusement  at  the  Dean,  who  stands 
with  the  twig  in  his  hand  glancing  quiz- 
zically at  her  and  longingly  at  Lady 
Patricia.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

When  duty  and  pleasure  are  combined,  there's 
no  reason  to  hesitate.  I  saw  a  fly  settle  on 
Patricia's  chin. 

Dean.  i 

Happy  fly! 

(He  tiptoes  up  to  Patricia  and  starts 
fanning  her  and  daintily  examining  her 
through  his  eyeglass.  MRS.  O'Farrel 
puts  up  her  lorgnette  and  regards  them 
with  vast  amusement.  Suddenly  a  rotten 
branch  falls  from  above  on  to  the  plat- 
form.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

(Lorgnetting  upwards.)  How  very  strange! 
And  not  a  breath  of  wind  ! 


LADY   PATRICIA  49 

Dean. 

(Monocling  upwards.)     Merely  a  squirrel.     I 
believe  I  caught  sight  of  its  tail. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

I  hope  the  tree's  not  rotten.     I'm  considerably 
heavier   than    a   squirrel ! 

(She  goes  over  to  the  Dean.) 
Dean. 

Oh,  softly,  please.    .    .   . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

(Laughing.)     Softly  yourself  ! 

Dean. 

(Pointing  to  Patricia.)  Did  you  ever  see  the 
like? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

What  are  you  talking  about? 

Dean. 

The  wonder  of  this  sleeping  woman.  Was  there 
ever  anything  more  beautiful? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

I  thought  you  knew  better  than  to  praise  one 
woman  to  another. 

Dean. 

Oh,  but  you  are  not  another  !  You  are  Eileen 
who,  ever  since  I  met  her  in  short  skirts,  have 
been  the  fairest  of  all. 

4 


50  LADY  PATRICIA 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Fiddle-de-dee  !     I'm  old  and  ugly  ! 

Dean. 

No  woman  can  ever  be  old  and  ugly — ^you  least 
of  all. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Charming  old  humbug  !  Well,  I  agree  with  you 
— Patricia's  certainly  ornamental. 

Dean. 

The  pose,  my  dear  lady,  the  pose  !  Unstudied 
grace  of  abandonment,  artless  perfection  !  Per- 
fection as  a  whole,  perfection  in  detail  !  Consider 
the  right  hand  :  so  blissfully  burdened.  Consider 
the  left :  still  clasping  some  poem  only  less  ex- 
quisite than  itself.  The  eyelids  are  faintly  blue — 
surely  with  the  sky  of  a  delicate  dream.  From 
head  to  foot  every  curve  is  a  lyric — ^from  head — I 
should  like  to  see  her  foot. 

(Re  looks  sadly  at  her  covered  feet.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Haven't  you  the  courage? 

Dean. 

I  beg  your  pardon? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
To  look  at  it. 

Dean.     ^ 

Mrs.  O'FarrelJ 


LADY   PATRICIA  51 

Mrs.  OTarrel. 

■Well,  if  I  admired  her  feet  as  much  as  you  do, 
I  shouldn't  hesitate. 

Dean. 

But  supposing  she   woke   and   found   me — er — 


er- 


Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Arranging  her  skirt?  .  .  .  My  dear  man,  I 
know  Patricia  ;  she  would  gladly  show  you  several 
inches  of  her  ankle. 

Dean. 

Eileen,  you're  a  wicked  woman  ! 

{They  move  to  the  other  side  of  the  plat- 
form.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

And  you're  a  scandalous  example  of  clerical 
depravity  ! 

(Lady  Patricia  loolis  cautiously  over  her 
shoulder  at  them,  yawns,  and  pretends  to 
sleep  again.) 

Dean. 

Tut,  tut,  tut,  my  dear  !  .  .  .  Eileen,  do  you 
know  why  I  went  into  the  Church? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

You  thought  it  a  convenient  cloak  for  your 
peccadilloes. 


52  LADY  PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Out  of  sheer  gratitude  to  my  Maker  for  creating 
woman.  .  .  .  Eileen,  why  did  you  refuse  to 
marry  me? 

Mrs.  OTarrbl. 

There  must  be  at  least  half  a  dozen  flies  on 
Patricia's  face. 

Dean. 

Never  mind  the  flies — it's  their  turn  for  (the 
moment.    .    .   .  Why  did  you  refuse  me,  Eileen? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Because  my  love  for  you  made  me  a  blind  fool ! 
I  misunderstood  your  admiration  for  women.  I 
thought  your  homage  of  every  girl  you  met,  per- 
sonal— not  universal,  as  I  learned  too  late — a 
superb  compliment  to  the  whole  sex.  Dear  friend, 
I  repented  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  !  Not  that 
O'Earrel  wasn't  a  good  fellow,  every  inch  of  him. 
He  made  life  very  happy.  But  life  with  you — 
well,  I  missed  it ! 


Dean. 

iWill  you  marry 

me, 

Eileen? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

No. 

Dean. 

Why  not? 

LADY  PATRICIA  53 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

I'm  far  too  old  for  a  boy  like  you. 

Dean. 

Is  this  final? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Final.  ^ 

Dean. 

Ah !  .  .  .  Your  companionship  would  have 
been  so  good  for  Clare.  A  tactfully  restraining 
influence.   .   .   . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

I  doubt  it.  I'm  too  much  in  sympathy  with  the 
child. 

Dean. 

But  you  wouldn't  encourage  her  to  tell  every 
one  she  meets — including  the  Bishop — that  she  is 
an  Atheist,  or  ride  astride  through  the  town  with- 
out the  formality  of — er — divided  skirts.   .    .    . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

No — perhaps  not.  {She  lowers  her  voice.)  I 
should  first  of  all  put  a  stop  to  her  galavantin' 
about  every  other  day  with  Michael. 

Dean. 

Really,  my  dear  Eileen,  I  think  the  friendship 
between  Michael  Cosway  and  Clare  is  wholly 
charming  and  can  only  do  the  child  good.  Surely 
you  don't 


54  LADY  PATRICIA 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

No,  of  course  I  don't  !  Michael's  far  too  infatu- 
ated with  your  sleeping  beauty  there.  Still,  I'd 
put  a  stop  to  it.  And  then  I  should  marry  your 
daughter  to  Bill  with  indecent  haste. 

Dean. 

Eh,  what  ?    Your  son  ?     Dear  me  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

iWhy  shouldn't  they  marry  ?  They  are  obviously 
kindred  spirits. 

Dean. 

I    don't   know   your   son   sufficiently    well   to — 


er- 


Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

A  thoroughly  healthy,  young  animal.  .  .  . 
You'll  meet  him  in  a  moment.  I  hear  the 
motor.    .    .    . 

Dean. 

How  quick  they've  been  !  .  .  .  Marry  them  ! 
Dear  me  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Now  then,  Mr.  Dean,  to  work  ! 

Dean. 

I  don't  quite 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Patricia's  flies  !     If  Michael  catches  you  idling  ! 


LADY  PATRICIA  55 

Dean. 

Now,  fancy  my  forgetting  it ! 

{They  both  laugh.  He  hurries  hack  to  Lady 
Patricia  and  starts  fanning  her.  Voices 
are  audible  beneath.) 

Mrs.  OTarrel. 

{Looking  over  the  railing.)  But  where's  Bill? 
{She  hurries  towards  the  entrance  and  calls  down.) 
Have  you  people  dropped  my  only  son  out  of  the 
car? 

(Clare  enters y  followed  by  Michael.) 

Clare. 

He  never  turned  up  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Nonsense  !  He  wired  from  Southampton 
that 

Michael. 

S  -s  -sh  !     You  might  wake  Patricia  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Oh,  confound  Patricia  ! 

Clare. 
But 


{Suddenly  a  saucer  falls  from  above  on  to  the 
middle  of  the  platform.  They  all  are 
startled  and  Patricia  sits  up  with  a  cry.) 


56  LADY  PATRICIA 

Dean. 
Dear  me  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
Well,  I  never  ! 

Michael. 

What  on  earth  ! 

Clare. 

There's  some  one  up  the  tree  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

The  squirrel.    .   .    .  (Looks  at  the  DEAN.) 

Dean. 

Most  awkward.   .    .    . 

Michael. 

Don't  be  alarmed,  Patricia.  (Sternly.)  Who 
are  you,  sir?  What  are  you  doing  there?  Come 
down  at  once.    ...   Do  you  hear  me,  sir? 

Bill. 

(Still  invisible  to  the  audience.)  All  right — I'm 
coming.    .    .    . 

Clare . 

There  he  is,  Mike  F    I  see  his  leg  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

(To  herself.)    Mike?    Hm  ! 


LADY  PATRICIA  57 

Michael. 
Bill ! 

Bill. 

(From  aloft.)     Hullo  ! 
{Astonished    exclamations   of   ''What!''    and 
''Bill!'') 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
Bill? 

(Bill  comes  into  sight  descending  the  trunk.) 

Bill  ! 

(Bill  reaches  terra  firma.    He  smiles,  embar- 
rassed, from  one  person  to  the  other.) 

Bill. 

How  are  you,  mother?     How-de-do,  Mr.  Dean? 
How-de-do,  Miss  Lesley?  How's  yourself,  Michael? 

Lady  Patricia. 

And  have  you  no  greeting  for  poor  me,  Cousin 
Bill? 

Bill. 

Oh,    I    say,    I'm    awfully   sorry !      How-de-do, 
Cousin  Patricia? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

But  what  on  earth  were  you  doing  up  the" tree? 

Bill. 

Birds' -nesting. 


58  LADY   PATRICIA 

Mrs.  OTaerel,  Michael,  Dean. 
Birds '-nesting? 

Clare. 

{Gravely.)  And  you  took  a  saucer  up  with  you 
to  put  the  eggs  in? 

Bill. 

Oh,  did  I? 

Clare. 

Of  course.  It's  the  usual  thing  to  do  when  you 
go  birds' -nesting.  Didn't  you  always  take  a  saucer 
with  you  as  a  boy,  Mr.  Cos  way? 

Michael. 

I  can't  say  I  remember  doing  so. 

Clare. 

So  long  ago  that  you've  forgotten?  I've  read 
somewhere  that  when  they  look  for  ostrich -eggs 
in  America  they  take  soup -tureens. 

Bill. 

I  say   ...  1 

Michael. 

There  are  no  ostriches  in  America. 

Clare. 

Then  I  wonder  why  they  look  for  ostrich-eggs. 


LADY  PATRICIA  59 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

{Laughing .)  Do  stop  talking  nonsense,  Clare  ! 
.  .  .  Really,  Bill,  I'm  curious  to  know  quite  a 
lot  of  things.  Why  did  you  take  an  earlier  train? 
Why  did  you  come  here?  Why  did  you  climb  up 
the  tree  with  a  saucer?  Why  did  you  let  Michael 
and  Miss  Lesley  fetch  you  at  the  station?  And 
why  did  you  remain  in  the  tree  while  the  Dean 
and  I — er 

Dean. 

Talked  over  old  times  together. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Talked  over  old  times  together.  It's  all  rather 
mysterious . 

Dean. 

Unusual.    .    .   . 

Bill. 

I  dropped  a  rotten  branch. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Quite  so.  And  the  Dean  thought  a  squirrel  had 
done  it. 

Bill. 

Oh  yes,  you  caught  sight  of  my  tail ! 

(Re  goes  into  a  shout  of  lonely  laughter.) 


60  LADY  PATRICIA 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

That's  all  very  well.  But  what  was  your  idea 
in  playing  such  a  prank?  It  seems  to  me  rather 
childish. 

Dean. 

Primitive.    .    .   . 

Michael. 
Very. 

Clare. 
Quite. 

Lady  Patricia. 

(With  disarming  vivacity.)  Oh,  my  dear,  dear 
friends,  why  do  you  take  this  so  heavily?  Surely 
a  charming  piece  of  boyishness  !  May  I  tell  them 
what  happened,  Cousin  Bill?  I  saw  through  the 
whole  thing  at  once. 

Bill. 

I'm  sure  you  did. 

Lady  Patricia. 

He  so  longed  to  see  his  mother  that  he  came 
down  by  an  earlier  train.  .  .  .  Didn't  you. 
Cousin  Bill? 

Bill. 

That's  right. 


LADY  PATRICIA  61 

Lady  Patricia. 

But  when  he  arrived  he  found  she  had  gone  to 
a  garden  party.  He  was  so  disappointed.  .  .  . 
Weren't  you,  Cousin  Bill? 

Bill. 

That's  right. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Did  you  learn  to  say  "  that's  right "  in 
America?  It  sounds  so  successful.  .  .  .  When  he 
found  his  mother  was  out,  he  thought  he  would 
come  and  see  Michael  and — ^me.  Michael  had  gone 
to  the  garden  party,  but  he  was  told  that  I  was 
here.     He  found  me  asleep.    .   .   . 

Clare. 

(Imitating  Lady  Patricia's  voice  and  manner.) 
And  he  kissed  me — didn't  you.  Cousin  Bill? 

(Bill  goes  into  a  shout  of  long  and  lonely 
laughter.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

(In  a  pained  voice.)  He  found  me  asleep. 
I  had  not  been  feeling  very  well.   .    .   . 

Michael. 

Are  you  better,  my  darling  ? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Thank  you,  Michael  dear,  a  little  better.  .  .  . 
He  found  me  asleep.     He  was  thirsty,  poor  fellow  ! 


62  LADY   PATRICIA 

So  he  helped  himself  to  tea.  Providentially,  Ellis 
had  brought  two  cups.  Then  he  saw  you  all 
coming,  and  thought  it  would  be  ''  such  jolly  fun  " 
to  climb  up  the  tree  and  drop  a  saucer.  .  .  . 
Didn't  you? 

Clare. 

— Cousin  Bill.  (BiLL  laughs.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

He  had  meant  to  do  it  at  once.  But  he  couldn't 
resist  the  joke  of  letting  Clare  and  Michael  fetch 
him  at  the  station.  And  when  they  had  gone  he 
simply  had  to  wait  till  they  came  back  again — or, 
perhaps,  the  Dean  and  Aunt  Eileen  were  so  enjoy- 
ing each  other's  company,  he  hadn't  the  heart  to 
disturb  them.  .  .  .  Then  Clare  and  Michael 
returned,  and  he  thought  the  joke  had  gone  far 
enough. 

Clare. 

So  he  threw  a  saucer  at  us. 

(Bill  indulges  in  a  third  lonely  laugh,) 

Michael. 

(Shortly.)     Crown  Derby.   .   .   . 

Bill. 
Sorry. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Isn't  that  more  or  less  the  true  story,  Cousin 
Bill?. 


LADY  PATRICIA  63 

Bill. 

I  say,  what  an  awfully  clever  woman  you  are  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

Am  I  ?   ...  I  wonder  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Clever  at  writing  verses,  Patricia.  But  prose 
fiction's  not  in  your  line.  (PATRICIA  smiles  pity- 
ingly and  examines  her  rings.)  Bill  we  must  be 
off.  There's  barely  time  to  dress,  and  some  people 
are  dining  with  us  to-night. 

Bill. 

All  right,  mother.  (He  goes  to  Clare.)  I  say, 
Miss  Lesley,  when  last  we  niet  you  had  long  hair. 

Clare. 

(Gravely.)  I  still  have  long  hair,  Mr. 
O'Farrel. 

Bill. 

Oh,  but  whait  I  meant  was 


Lady  Patricia. 

(To  Clare.)  Xour  father  tells  me  you  are 
dining  with  us,  Clare.     I'm  so  glad  ! 

Clare. 

If  you  don't  mind  me  in  this  dress,  Lady 
Patricia.  Mr.  Cosway  has  promised  to  show  me 
the — er — what's  its  name? 


64  LADY   PATRICIA 

Michael. 

The  spiral  nebula  in  Andromeda. 

Bill. 

How  much? 

Michael. 

A  cluster  of  minute  stars  in  the  constellation  of 
Andromeda.  I  say  stars  designedly.  For  I  differ 
from  many  authorities  in  believing  this  nebula  to 
be  irresolvable  or  gaseous.  Indeed,  the  remark- 
able observations  of  Sir  William  McKechnie  leave 
no  doubt  in  my  mind  that  this  so-called  nebula  is 
an  external  galaxy.     In  which  case 

Bill. 

Oh,  help  !  So  you  still  rot  about  with  a  tele- 
scope, Michael? 

Michael. 

(Coldly.)  I  am  greatly  interested  in  as- 
tronomy. 

Bill. 

{To  Clare.)    You,  too? 

Clare. 

I  like  the  stars.    .   .   . 

(She  turns  loftily  from  him  and  talks  to  MRS. 
O'Farrel  and  Michael.) 


LADY  PATRICIA  65 

Lady  Patricia. 

(To  the  Dean.)  I'm  so  sorry  !  (To  Clare.)  I 
was  trying  to  persuade  your  father  to  stay  with 
you,  Clare.  But  he's  bent  on  putting  finishing- 
touches  to  to-morrow's  sermon. 

Michael. 

(To  the  Dean.)  I'll  see  Miss  Lesley  home,  of 
course . 

Mils.  C 'Parrel. 

Can  we  drop  you  at  the  Deanery? 

Dean. 

It's  very  kind  of  you. 

Mks.  O'Farrel. 

Come  along,  Bill.     Good-bye,  all ! 

(She  goes  out.     The  Dean  shakes  hands  with 
Lady  Patricia  and  follows  her.) 

Bill. 

(To  Patricia,  in  a  low  voice.)  I've  left  'the 
cup  and  glass  up  the  tree.  (Aloud,)  Good-bye, 
Cousin  Patricia. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Good-bye,  Cousin  Bill. 

Bill. 

Good-bye,  Clare. 


66  LADY   PATRICIA 

Claee. 

(Haughtily.)     Clare? 

Bill. 

Yes.     (To  Michael,  in  'passing.)    Sorry  about 
the  saucer.     Good-bye. 

Clare. 
Cheek  ! 

(He  goes  out.  A  pause.  Voices  are  heard 
below  and  the  sound  of  a  departing  motor. 
Michael  waves  good-bye.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Stretching  out  her  arms.)    Michael ! 

Michael. 

(Putting  his  arms  about  her.)  Patricia  !  And 
the  poor  head  is  really  better,  darling?  I'm  so 
glad  you  were  able  to  sleep  ! 

(Clare  looks  at  them  with  bored  contempt, 
shrugs  her  shoulders,  goes  to  the  tree,  and 
starts  climbing  up  it  during  the  following.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

And  my  sleep  was  full  of  dreams,  Michael. 
Strange  and  mystic  dreams — oh,  and  such  beau- 
tiful dreams  !  For  they  all  led  up  to  a  vision  of 
my  dearest's  face.         (CLARE  has  vanished  aloft.) 

Michael. 

Heart  of  my  heart  ! 


LADY  PATRICIA  67 

Lady  Patricia. 
Soul  of  my  soul ! 

Michael. 

Patricia.    ... 

Lady  Patricia. 
Michael.    .    .    . 

(Baldwin  enters  unnoticed  with  his  saw  and 
garden  shears.  He  stares  fixedly  up  the 
tree.) 

Michael. 

One  night  I  shall  find  a  new  star  in  the  depths 
of  the  sky 

Lady  Patricia. 

One  day  I  shall  write  a  poem  that  will  ring 
down  the  ages 

Michael. 

And  the  star  shall  be  called  Patricia. 

Lady  Patricia. 

And  the  poem — Michael. 

Michael. 

(Lingering  on  the  word.)     Patricia  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Lingering  on  the  word.)    Michael  ! 


68  LADY  PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

Beggin'  yer  pardon,  sir,  but  there  be  summin' 
white  movin'  about  up  the  tree. 

Lady  Patricia. 
Baldwin  ! 

Baldwin. 

It  a'most  looks  to  me  as  though  a  young  lady  'ad 
climbed  up  the  tree,  sir. 

Michael. 

What  on  earth A 


Clare. 

(Shrilly  from  above.)  Don't  you  dare  to  look 
up  here,  Baldwin — nor  you,  Mi — Mr.  Cosway  !  If 
there's  something  white  to  be  seen  it's  certainly 
not  for  you  to  look  at !  (BALDWIN  continues 
stolidly  looking  up.)  D'you  hear  me,  Baldwin? 
Oh  !     Tell  him  to  turn  his  head  somewhere  else. 

Michael. 
Baldwinil 

Baldwin. 
Yessir  ? 

Lady  Patricia. 

But,  my  dear  child,  what  are  you  doing  there? 

Clare. 

Birds' -nesting. 


LADY  PATRICIA  60 

Michael  and  Lady  Patricia. 
Birds'-nesting  ! 

Clare. 

I  don't  believe  there's  a  nest  here  at  all.  He  was 
simply  kidding  us. 

Baldwin. 

If  it's  h'eggs  you're  wantin',  miss,  there's  a  rare 
lot  of  'em  in  the  ivy  up  at  the  'ouse.  Sparrers — 
drat  'em  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

{To  Michael.)  What  an  amazing  young 
creature!  (To  Clare.)  But  you'll  ruin  your 
frock,  my  child. 

Clare. 

I  can't  help  that.  I  mean  to  find  out  whether 
there's  a  nest  here  or  not.  Besides,  I  simply 
couldn't  hang  around  while  you  and  Mr.  Cosway 
were  canoodleing. 

Lady  Patricia. 

{Puzzled . )      Canoodleing  ? 

Clare. 
Spooning. 

Lady  Patricia. 

How  very  vulgar  you  can  be  ! 


70  LADY  PATEICIA 

Clare. 
Can't  I  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Shrugs  her  shoulders  and  speaks  to  Michael 
with  a  plaintive  languor.)  I  think  it  would  be 
very  pleasant  to  dine  here,  Michael.  I'll  go  indoors 
and  change  into  something  warmer. 

Michael. 

You're  not  cold,  my  love? 

Lady  Patricia. 

No,  no,  dear,  no.  But  I  might  be  later  on. 
(To  Baldwin,  who  has  been  staring  fixedly  into 
the  branches.)     What  are  you  doing,  Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

It's  main  'ard  to  keep  a  h'eye  on  the  sun,  m'lady, 
an'  mine  ain't  no  longer  w'at  they  was.  Might  I 
arst,  mum,  if  the  sun's  'bout  right  for  loppin'  off 
they  branches? 

Michael. 

Lopping  off  the  branches  ? 

Clare. 

(From  above.)     Oh  I     I've  found  a  cup  ! 

Michael. 
A  cup  ! 


LADY  PATRICIA  71 

Clare. 

And  a  glass  ! 

Michael. 

A  cup  and  a  glass  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Languidly.)  Oh,  I  suppose  Cousin  Bill  left 
them  up  there.  You  needn't  trouble  to  bring  them 
down,  Clare.     Baldwin  can  fetch  them. 

Clare. 

He  seems  to  have  been  doing  himself  uncommonly 
well.  I  daresay  I  shall  find  plates,  knives  and 
forks,  napkins  and  finger-bowls.     What  ho  ! 

Michael. 

(To  Lady  Patricia.)  Has  that  fellow  gone 
quite  off  his  head? 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Going  out.)  Bill?  Oh,  no,  dear  I  Oh,  no! 
It's  only  youth — youth  will  out  !  Beautiful  rose- 
white  youth  ! 

(She  gives  him  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  he  looks 
after  her  with  a  fatuous  smile  so  long 
as  she  is  in  sight.  Then  you  hear  her 
singing  below:) 

When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad, 
And  all  the  trees  are  green. 

And  every  goose  a  swan,  lad. 
And  every  lass  a  queen. 


72  LADY  PATRICIA 

Then,  hey!    for  hoot  and  horse,  lady 
And  round   the  world  away  I 

Young  blood  must  have  its  course,  lad, 
And  every  dog  its  day! 

(Michael  turns  slowly  from  the  railiyig, 
heaves  a  deep  sigh,  and  stands  with 
clenched  hands,  rigid,  looking  straight 
before  him  with  tragic  eyes.  The  beau- 
tiful voice  grows  fainter  in  the  distance. 
The  sun  is  westering  on  the  right,  and 
sheds  a  golden  light  on  the  scene.  Bald- 
win stands  staring  out  into  the  sunset.) 

Clare. 

{From  above.)     Mike  ! 

Michael. 
Yes? 

Clare. 

Has  she  gone? 

Michael. 

Yes. 

Clare. 
Mike. 

Michael. 

Yes? 

Clare. 

Why  is  she  like  a  collar? 


LADY  PATRICIA  73 

Michael. 

I  don't  know. 

Clare. 

Because  she's  always  round  your  neck. 

Michael. 

(With  clenched  hands,)    Oh.   .   .   . 

Clare. 

You  and  she  are  enough  to  make  a  saint  ill. 
You  ought  to  have  more  tact  than  to  spoon  about 
in  public.     (MICHAEL  stands  rigid.)    Mike. 

Michael. 

Yes? 

Clare . 
Sulky? 

Michael. 

No. 

Clare. 

What's  up,  then  ? 

Michael. 
Nothing . 

Clare. 

I'm  coming  down.  There's  not  a  nest  to  be 
seen  anywhere.     By  Jove,  I  am  in  a  mess!     It's 


74  LADY  PATRICIA 

all  your  fault  for  driving  me  up  a  tree  with  your 
disgusting  billing  and  cooing. 

Michael. 

{Hoarsely.)    Don't.   .   .   . 

Clare. 

Sorry.  (MICHAEL  makes  a  movement.)  No, 
no  !  Stay  where  you  are  !  And  don't  look  up 
here.  Oh,  damn  !  .  .  .  Sorry  !  But  I've  torn  my 
frock  and  ripped  open  the  hooks  behind.  All  your 
fault . 

Michael. 

You  shall  have  another  frock. 

Clare. 
Thanks. 

Michael. 
Two  frocks. 

Clare. 

No — one  and  a  pinafore.  Oh,  confound  this 
branch  !  .  .  .  I  think  the  pater  would  draw  the 
line  at  two  frocks. 

{8he  descends  into  view,  and  jumps  on  to  the 
ground.  She  is  sadly  dishevelled,  her 
gloves  filthy,  her  dress  all  open  at  the 
bade,  and  with  a  great  tear  at  the  side 
of  the  skirt.) 

At  last !    .    .    .   Hullo,  Baldwin,  I  thought  you  had 
gone.    .    .    . 


LADY  PATRICIA  75 

Baldwin. 

No,  miss. 

Michael. 

What  are  you  doing  here,  Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

The   mistress's   orders,   sir.      I   was   to   keep   a 
h'eye  on  the  sun. 

(Clare  laughs.) 

Michael. 

(Mystified.)     Keep  a  h'eye  on  the  sun?    iWhat 
do  you  mean  ? 

(Clare  laughs,) 

Baldwin. 

'Er  ladyship  said  as  I  was  to  keep  a  h'eye  on 
the  sun,  so  as  to  lop  away  the  branches. 

Michael. 

I  don't  understand  in  the  least  what  you  are 
talking  about.    Come  back  later  on. 

Baldwin. 

Yessir.     But  the  mistress's  orders 


Michael. 

Yes,  yes — another  time.     I'm  busy  now. 

Baldwin. 

Yessir.   ...  (He  goes  out  slowly.) 


76  LADY  PATRICIA 

Clare. 

(Exhibiting  the  damages  in  her  dress.)  Aud 
now  perhaps,  sir,  you  will  keep  a  h'eye  on  me, 
while  I  show  you  the  result  of  your  'andiwork  ! 

Michael. 

My  dear  child  !  .  .  .  But  in  common  fairness, 
you  can't  put  all  the  blame  on  me. 

Clare. 

.Well,  I  shan't  say  anything  more  at  present, 
since  you're  going  to  give  me  a  new  frock.  (Look- 
ing at  her  hands.)  Oh,  dear  !  I  wish  it  were 
gloves . 

Michael. 

(With  fascinated  eyes.)    A  dozen  pair.    .    .   . 

Clare . 

All  right — ^five  and  three-quarters.  Now  then — 
pins. 

Michael. 
Pins  ? 

Clare. 

Yes,  pins.     Look  alive  ! 

Michael. 

(Going.)     I'll  be  back  in  a  moment. 

Clare. 

No,  stay  here.     Your  tie-pin  will  do  for  one. 


LADY  PATRICIA  77 

I've  a  safety-pin  here  (fiddling  at  her  waist), 
and  another  somewhere  in  my  collar.  .  .  .  Bring 
a  cushion  here. 

Michael. 

A  cushion?   .    .   . 

Clare. 

(Still  searching  for  her  pins.)  Yes — a  cushion. 
(In  a  dazed  way  he  fetches  one  from  Lady 
Patricia's  chair.)     Put  it  down. 

Michael. 

The  cushion?   .    .   . 

(Re  stands  helplessly  holding  the  cushion,  then 
puts  it  hack  on  the  chair.) 

Clare. 

Don't  play  the  giddy  goat,  Mike  !  Put  the 
cushion  on  the  ground. 

Michael. 

Oh,  yes — ^yes,  of  course 

(Re  places  it  at  her  feet.) 
Clare. 

Kneel  down. 

Michael. 
Eh? 

Clare 

Kneel  on  the  cushion.  I  want  to  spare  your 
old  joints. 


78  LADY   PATRICIA 

Michael. 
Oh.   .  .   . 

(He  kneels  with  a  mirthless  laugh.) 
Claee. 

Now  we'll  see  if  you're  worth  your  keep.  Here 
are  two  safety-pins.  Make  that  tear  look  respect- 
able. 

Michael. 
But 


Clare. 

If  these  safety-pins  aren't  enough,  use  your 
tie-pin. 

Michael. 

(Setting  to  work.)    Very  well. 

Clare. 

I  shall  want  you  afterwards  to  fasten  up  the 
hooks  behind.  .  .  .  (A  pause.)  How  are  you 
getting  on  ? 

Michael. 

All  right,  thanks. 

(He    works   at    her    skirt    for    a   moment    in 
silence.) 

Clare. 

(Abruptly.)     What's  that  boy  like? 


LADY  PATRICIA  79 

Michael. 
What  boy? 

Clare. 

Bill  O'i^arrel. 

Michael. 

He's  given  you  a  fair  specimen  of  himself  in 
the  silly  prank  he  played  just  now. 

Clare. 

Oh,  that  seemed  to  me  rather  a  sporting  thing 
to   do. 

Michael. 

A  sporting  thing  ! 

Clare. 

Yes.  To  make  an  utter  ass  of  himself,  and  then 
carry  it  off  with  a  string  of  lies.  How  are  you 
getting  on  ? 

Michael. 

(Surveying  his  handiwork.)  1  think  that  looks 
better. 

Clare. 

It'll  have  to  do,  anyhow.  .  .  .  Now  for  the 
hooks.  (Michael  sets  to  work  at  the  back  of 
her  dress.)  Begin  at  the  top.  I  daresay  some  of 
the  eyes  have  got  torn.     I  gave  the  dress  an  awful 


«0  LADY  PATRICIA 

wrench  on  the  tree.     Do  the  best  you  can.   .    .    . 
Oh,  don't  fumble  about  like  that ! 

(Michael's  hands  tremble  as  he  works,  A 
pause.) 

Michael. 

(In  a  low  voice.)     Clare.   .    .   . 

Clare. 
Well  ? 

Michael. 

I  love  you.    ... 

{A  long  pause.  He  stares  with  breathless 
expectation  at  the  back  of  her  head.  She 
looks  straight  before  her.) 

Clare. 

Have  you  finished  all  the  hooks? 

Michael. 

The  hooks?   .    .   .   I — I  beg  your  pardon.    .    .   . 

(He  goes  on  with  his  work  for  a  time  in  silence.) 

Are  you  angry  with  me? 

Clare. 

I  don't  know. 

MichaDl. 

You   must   have   known   for   some   time   that    1 
loved  you. 


LADY  PATRICIA  81 

Clare. 

{Turning  on  Mm.)  Then  why  do  you  always 
annoy  me  by  making  love  to — to  your  wife  when 
I'm  there?  (Michael  still  kneels  on  the  cushion, 
looking  up  at  her  with  abject  eyes.)  Why  don't 
you  speak? 

Michael. 
Clare 


Clare. 

(With  a  sudden  burst  of  laughter.)  Oh,  get  up 
from  that  cushion  !  You  don't  know  what  a  fool 
you  look  !  (Michael  gets  up  with  a  pained 
expression  and  stands  staring  tragically  before 
him.  A  pause.  She  speaks  in  a  gentler  voice.) 
Well,  Mike? 

Michael. 

Since  I  have  spoken  so  much  and  done  you 
wrong  and  Patricia  wrong,  I  must  tell  you  all  and 
throw  myself  on  your  mercy.  .  .  .  When  I 
married  Patricia  I  sincerely  believed  I  loved  her. 
She  seemed  to  me  a  kindred  spirit — with  her  sensi- 
tive, beautiful  nature.  I  found  out  too  late  that 
love  depends  as  often  on  mutual  difference  as 
mutual  sympathy.  My  love  for  her  never  went 
deeper  than  the  intellect.  Oh,  the  tragedy  of  it ! 
She  is  such  a  fair,  white  soul,  and  so  worthy  of 
my   whole  love  !   .    .   . 

Clare. 

If  you  don't  love  her,  why  do  you  pretend  to? 
6 


82  LADY  PATRICIA 

Michael. 

Can't  you  see — can't  you  see  I  have  no  alterna- 
tive? Patricia's  love  for  me  is  unearthly  in  its 
depth  and  intensity.  She  worships  me,  little  as 
I  deserve  it.  If  for  one  moment  she  thought  my 
love  had  slackened,  that  moment  would  be  her 
last.  You  don't  know  how  sensitive  she  is.  .  .  . 
Do  you  suppose,  Clare,  I  enjoy  playing  this  dread- 
ful game?  But  I  must — ^it  is  my  duty.  I  have 
sworn  to  love  and  cherish  her. 

Clare. 

(After  a  pause,  going  up  to  him.)  Michael, 
how  long  have  you  loved  me? 

Michael. 

Almost  since  first  I  met  you,  you  wild  thing  ! 
You  soul  of  youth  and  incarnation  of  the  morning  ! 

(He  looks  longingly  down  at  her.) 
Clare. 

Oh,  you  poor  old  thing  !  (She  looks  up  side- 
ways at  him.)     Mike,  you  may  if  you  like. 

Michael. 

Clare.    .   .    .  (He  hesitates.) 

Clare. 

Get  it  over  soon.  (He  bends  down  and  kisses 
her  reverently,  then  turns  away  from  her  with 
tragic  eyes.)     Didn't  you  like  it?   .   .    . 


LADY  PATRICIA  83 

Michael. 

But  the  wrong  I  am  doing  you,  and  the  wrong 
I  am  doing  Patricia.    .   .    . 

Clare. 

But  if  Patricia  doesn't  know  and  I  don't  mind, 
I  don't  see  where  the  wrong  comes  in.  .  .  .  Do 
you? 

Michael. 

{Taking  her  hands.)    Do  you  love  me,  Clare? 

Clare. 

I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  think  I  do.  You're 
such  a  solemn  old  donkey !  .  .  .  Michael,  if  I 
love  you,  will  it  really  make  you  a  happier 
man? 

Michael. 

Happier?  Oh,  my  dear,  with  the  knowledge  of 
your  love  I  should  be  able  to  endure  anything  ! 

Clare. 

Even  Patricia? 

Michael. 

Hush,  Clare,  hush  !  .  .  .  Patricia's  is  a  pure 
and  delicate  soul.  It  is  I  who  am  unworthy,  since 
I  cannot  retiirn  her  wonderful  love.  .  .  .  Little 
girl,  do  you  understand  that  this  love  of  yours 
may  bring  much  suffering  into  your  life?  I 
can  never,  by  word  or  deed,  change  my  attitude 


84  LADY  PATRICIA 

towards  Patricia — never  !  She  must  never  know 
that  I  do  not  love  her.  .  .  .  And  what  of  us? 
Our  love  must  stand  alone  in  the  world.  It  must 
be  something  wholly  pure  and  noble  and  self- 
sacrificing — the  love  that  asks  for  nothing,  that 
hopes  for  nothing — the  love  of  the  angels  that 
neither  marry  nor  are  given  in  marriage.  .  .  . 
Do  you  realise  all  this? 

Clare. 

Yes.    .   .    .  You  see,  Mike,  I  always  believe  in 
platonic  love. 

Michael. 

(A  little  doubtfully .)    Platonic.   .   .   . 

Clare. 

Well,  platonic  lovers  do  kiss  each  other  now  and 
then   .    .    .   don't   they? 

Michael. 

(^Solemnly.)     I  believe  they  do- 

Clare. 

And,  Mike.    .   .   . 

Michael. 
Well? 

Clare. 

I  don't  want  you  to  give  me  that  frock. 

Michael. 
But 


LADY  PATRICIA  85 

Claee. 

Or  the  gloves. 

Michael. 

But  why  not,  Clare?    I  don't  understand.    .   .   . 

Clake. 

Don't  you,  old  boy?  Neither  do  I.  But  I'd 
much  rather  you   didn't — now. 

Michael. 

Surely,  dear 

(Lady   Pateicia's    voice    is    heard    speaking 
beneath.) 

Claee. 

Hush  !  .  .  .  And  I'm  going  home  now.  Don't 
try  to  prevent  me,  like  a  good  chap.  And  I  want 
to  walk  back  alone. 

(Lady  Pateicia  emerges  speaking  to  Bald- 
win, who  follows  her.) 

Lady  Pateicia. 

We've  come  just  at  the  wonderful  moment,  Bald- 
win. All  the  west  is  a  ritual  of  gold.  (She  has 
a  wrap  over  her  of  a  wonderful  sunset  hue  and  a 
white  lily  in  her  hand.)  Here's  poor  Baldwin 
deeply  grieved  because  he's  shooed  away  every 
time  he  gets  to  work  I 

Michael. 

He  didn't  seem  to  be  doing  anything  particular, 
dearest,  when  I  sent  him  away. 


86  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Pateicia. 
But,  Michael 

(Baldwin,  with  his  shears  and  saws,  crosses 
to  the  right  and  examines  the  sunset.) 

Clare. 

Don't  you  remember  he  was  keeping  a  h'eye  on 
the  sun? 

Lady  Patricia. 

But,  Clare  !     What  a  dreadful  state  you're  in  ! 

Clare. 

I  know.  Your  trees  are  shockingly  dirty.  You 
really  ought  to  get  Baldwin  to  scrub  them  with 
soap  and  water  !  .  .  .  Lady  Patricia,  I  hope  you 
won't  think  me  very  rude  if  I  run  away.  I  had 
quite  forgotten  it  was  father's  sermon  night  when 
I  accepted  Mr.  Cosway's  invitation  to  dinner.  I 
always  help  him  with  his  sermons. 

Lady  Patricia. 

You,  my  dear  child  ! 

Clare. 

I  verify  the  quotations  and  prune  the  adjectives. 
.    .    .   Then  you'll  forgive  me? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Sweet  girl !  (She  strokes  Clara's  unwilling 
face.)  I'm  very  sorry,  because  I'm  going  to  do 
such  a  wicked  and  decadent  thing  at  dinner.     You 


LADY  PATRICIA  87 

sec  this  lily?  So  virginal  and  nun-like  !  I  am 
going  to  put  her  into  a  glassful  of  wine  and  make 
her  tipsy. 

Claee. 
Oh!   .   .   . 

Lady  Pateicia. 

You  must  come  some  other  evening.     We  are 
both  so  very  fond  of  you. 

Claee. 

Good-bye.     Good-bye,  Mr.  Cosway. 

Michael. 

Are  you  suro  you  don't  want  me  to  come  with 
you? 

Claee. 

Quite,  thanks.     Good-bye.  (She  goes  out.) 

Lady  Pateicia. 

She  seems  to  be  in  a  chastened  frame  of  mind. 

Michael. 

Perhaps  she's  not  quite  well. 

Lady  Pateicia. 

(Holding  out  her  hcmds  to  him.)   Michael.  .  .  . 

Michael. 

(Taking  her  hands.)     Dearest ! 


88  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Patricia. 

It  will  be  just — just  you  and  I  ! 

Michael. 

You  and  I,  Patricia  ! 

Lady  Patricia.  ^ 

You  needn't  stay,  Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

(Who  is  still  staring  into   the  sunset.)     Beg 
pardon,  mum? 

Lady  Patricia. 
You  needn't  stay. 

Baldwin. 

But  if  you'll  excuse   my  sayin'   so,   mum,   the 


sun- 


Lady  Patricia. 

Another  time,  Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

Yes,  'm.  (He  goes  out  slowly.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

Just  you  and  I,  Michael.    .    .    .   Kiss  me. 

Michael. 

(Kissing  her.)    Just  you  and  I. 

Lady  Patricia. 

You  and  I  and  the  sunset.    ... 

(End  of  the  First  Act.) 


THE  SECOND  ACT 


THE  SECOND  ACT 

Scene  : — The  same,  except  for  an  eodtra  ladder 
which  Lady  Pateicia  has  had  built  up  to  the 
platform  on  the  left.  It  is  a  beautiful  night  in 
early  June.  The  full  moon  spreads  a  network 
of  shadows  on  the  platform,  and  a  few  large 
stars  twinkle  through  the  leaves.  Suspended 
from  the  branches  by  pieces  of  silken  string 
attached  to  nails  driven  into  the  trunk  of  the 
tree  are  several  elaborate  Chinese  lanterns. 
Empty  coffee-cups  and  liqueur  glasses  stand 
on  two  small  tables  in  the  background.  There 
are  one  or  two  chairs  about  in  addition  to 
Lady  Patricia's  deck-chair. 

(When  the  curtain  rises,  Baldwin  is  seen 
slowly  entering  on  the  left.  He  has  a 
bundle  of  small  candles  in  his  hand.  He 
looks  anxiously  from  lantern  to  lantern. 
Suddenly  one  of  them  goes  out.) 

Baldwin. 

Ho  !  (He  unfastens  the  string  from  the  nail 
and  lowers  the  lantern  with  deliberation,  mutter- 
ing.) Them  little  lanterns  do  burn  uncommon 
quick.   .    .    .  iWhoa  !      (Fixes  fresh  candle  in  the 

"    91 


92  LADY   PATRICIA 

lantern.)  Uncommon  quick  .  .  .  drat  'em.  .  .  . 
(Pulls  up  the  lantern.)    iWhoa  ! 

(While  he  fastens  the  string  on  to  the  'nail 
Lady  Patricia's  voice  is  heard  singing 
divinely  in  the  distance.  Baldwin  listens 
for  a  moment.  The  singing  ceases.  Re 
shakes  his  head  gloomily,  glances  into  the 
tree,  and  another  lantern  goes  out.) 

Ho  !  .  .  .  (Re  lowers  the  lantern.)  Whoa.  .  .  . 
(Fixing  the  fresh  candle.)  They  do  burn 
oncommon  quick — drat  'em.  .  .  (Pulls  up  the 
lantern.)     .Whoa.    .    .    . 

(After  fixing  the  string,  he  retires  slowly  into 
the  shadowy  background  and  stands  motion- 
less, staring  from  lantern  to  lantern. 
Suddenly  Bill  O'Farrel  enters  hurriedly 
by  the  ladder  in  the  centre.  He  is  in  even- 
ing dress.  He  does  not  see  Baldwin,  who 
merely  glances  at  him  and  then  resumes 
his  upward  scrutiny.  Bill  throws  himself 
into  Lady  Patricia's  d$ck'chair.) 
Bill. 

iWhew.   .    .    .  safe  !     (He  lights  a  cigarette.) 

(Suddenly    close    beneath    Lady    Patricia's 
voice    is    heard    singing    with    desultory 
beauty.    Bill  springs  to  his  feet.) 
Damn  I 

(He  tiptoes  cautiously  to  the  edge  of  the  plat- 
form and  peeps  over.  The  bird -like 
snatches  of  song  grow  nearer.) 


LADY  PATRICIA  93 

Damn  ! 

{He  crosses  softly  and  quickly  to  the  ladder 
on  the  left,  and  with  a  scared  look  over 
his  should er,  disappears  just  as  Lady 
Patricia,  in  a  gown  of  shimmering  wonder , 
emerges  by  the  ladder  in  the  centre.  She 
stops  singing  and  looks  around.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Flutingly.)  Bill.  .  .  .  Bill.  .  .  .  (She  per- 
ceives the  shadowy  figure  of  Baldwin  and  makes  a 
quick  movement  with  outstretched  arms  towards 
it.)     Ah,  my  dear  ! 

Baldwin. 

Beg  pardon,  m'lady? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Oh  !  .  .  .  Baldwin  !  How  amusing !  .  .  .  I 
was  looking  for — Mr.  Cos  way.     Has  he  been  here? 

Baldwin. 

Yes'm. 

Lady  Patricia. 
Oh,  when? 

Baldwin. 

'E  took  corfee  *ere  with  your  ladyship,  mum, 
and  'is  Very  Reverence,  and  the  young  lady  and 
Mrs.  0'Faa:rel  and  Mr.  O'Farrel. 


94  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Patricia. 

Sometimes,    Baldwin,    I    wonder    whether   your 
amazing  futility  may  not  be  a  conscious  pose. 

Baldwin. 

Beg  pardon,  mum  ? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Oh,  never  mind.   .    .    . 

(She  goes  out  on  the  left,  humming  sweetly. 
Baldwin  retires  to  the  background  and 
resumes  his  lantern  watch.  Clare  enters 
by  the  central  ladder  quickly  in  breathless 
condition  and  drops  into  the  deck-chair. 
Baldwin,  unperceived,  glances  at  her,  then 
looks  up  at  the  lanterns  again.) 

Clare. 

Safe !  (With  a  sigh  of  relief  she  lights  a 
cigarette.) 

(Suddenly  Michael's  voice  is  heard  beneath 
calling  softly.) 

Michael. 

Clare — Clare.   .    .   . 

Clare. 

Damn  !  (She  springs  to  her  feet,  crosses  quickly 
to  the  left,  and  descends  as  MICHAEL'S  head 
emerges  up  the  central  ladder.) 


LADY  PATRICIA  95 

Michael. 

Clare.   .    .   .    (Looks  around  and  perceives   the 

vague  form  of  Baldwin.)     Clare,  my Oh  !    I 

was  looking  for  Lady  Patricia.     Have  you  seen 
her,  Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 
Yessir. 

Michael. 

Oh.   .    .    .   Has  she  been  here? 

Baldwin. 
Yessir. 

Michael. 
When  ? 

Baldwin. 

Beg  pardon,  sir? 

Michael. 

(Impatiently.)     When  was  Lady  Patricia  here? 

Baldwin. 

Well,  sir,  it  may  'a  been  two  minutes  ago,  sir, 
or  it  may  'a  been 

Michael. 
Thank  you. 

(He    goes    out    on    the    lefty    while  Baldwin 
continues :) 


96  LADY  PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

Or  it  may  'a  been  three.  'Er  ladyship  were 
looking  for  you,  sir.  She  arst  me,  sir (Per- 
ceiving the  vanity  of  continuing  his  reminiscences 
he  looks  up  and  a  lantern  goes  out.)  Ho  ! 
(Loivers  the  lantern.)     Whoa  !    .    .    . 

(Enter  Ellis  up  the  central  ladder,  carrying 
a  tray  with  whisky -and -soda.) 
Ellis. 

Good  evening,  Mr.  Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

Them  candles  do  burn  oncommon  quick.  .  .  . 
You  was  sayin',  Mr.  Ellis? 

Ellis. 

I  said  good  evening. 

Baldwin. 

Whoa  !  .  .  .  (Fixes  the  string.)  Good  even- 
ing to  you. 

Ellis. 

(Clearing  coffee-cups,  dc,  and  setting  the 
whisky -and -soda.)  It  beats  me  what  the  company 
are  up  to  to-night.  After  dinner  they  all  went  for 
a  stroll  down  to  the  pond.  'Er  ladyship  wanted 
to  see — (imitates  Patricia) — '*  the  great  moon- 
flower's  reflection  among  the  lilies."  Then  they 
seem  to  'ave  separated.  The  old  people  are  be- 
having themselves  quite  rational — playing  bezique 
in  the  drawing-room.  The  others  are  playing  the 
tomfool  or  'ide -and -seek  or  something  o'  the  sort. 


LADY  PATRICIA  97 

Baldwin. 

'Iding-seek  ?  Are  they  now  !  That  minds  me 
as  'ow  I  onct  played  'iding-seek  with  Mrs.  Baldwin 
as  was  my  first  wife — she  weren't  my  wife  then — 
an'  found  'er — Qie  chuckles) — and  found  'er — 
(chuckles) — in  the  middle  of  the  bed  I   »    .   . 

(Ellis  guffaws.) 

A  rose  bed  it  wer'.  "  Maidens'  blush  *'  they  was, 
jest  fur  all  the  world  same  as  'er  purty  face.  So 
I  gives  her  sutting  wot  to  blush  for.  That  I  did. 
Dang  it !    Yus,  I  did. 

Ellis. 

You  seem  to  'ave  lived  your  life,  Mr.  Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

I  'ave  that.  I've  *ad  thirteen,  an'  two  of  'em 
by  me  first  wife.  Thirteen's  an  onlucky  number 
I've  'eard  tell.     But  I  ain't  suspicious. 

Ellis. 

Su-per-stitious  is  what  you  mean,  I  take  it? 

Baldwin. 

If  I  says  suspicious  I  means  it. 

Ellis. 

.Well,  please  yourself,  Mr.  Baldwin,  please  your- 
self. My  motter's  '-Live  an'  let  live."  Yes,  as  I 
was  saying,  it's  a  queer  game  of  'ide -and -seek 
they're  playing  at.  I  saw  young  OTarrel  just 
now  by  the  yew-trees.  'E  caught  sight  of  'er 
ladyship  comin'  up  the  path,  and  dived  into  the 

7 


98  LADY  PATRICIA 

shadder  like  a  frightened  rabbit.  Bit  queer  con- 
sidering 'ow  thick  they  are.  I  just  stood  aside 
to  see  if  anything  was  going  to  'appen.  Then  'oo 
should  come  along  but  the  master  !  They  must 
have  caught  sight  of  each  other  at  the  same  time. 
She  gave  a  sorter  jump  an'  stood  still.  'E  cut 
and  'urried  into  the  bushes.  Then  she  turned  and 
'urried  back  the  way  she'd  come.  What  d'yer  say 
to  that  ? 

Baldwin. 

iWhat  do  I  say? 

Ellis. 

Bit  queer,  ain't  it? 

Baldwin. 

Chronic  !  Why,  a  minute  or  two  back  'er  lady- 
ship was  up  'ere  an'  says,  "  I'm  looking  for  Mr. 
Cosway."  And  arfter  she's  gorne,  'e  comes  up  'ere 
an'  says,  ''  I'm  lookin'  for  'er  ladyship,"  'e  says. 

IEllis. 

Well,  I  give  it  up  ! 

(Lady    Pateicia    is    heard    singing    in    the 
distance.) 

There,  she's  at  it  again  ! 

(Bill   enters  up   the   central   ladder  unper- 
ceived  by  the  others.     He  stands  in  the 
background.     They  all  listen  to  the  sing- 
ing in  silence  until  it  ceases.) 
She  can  sing,  an'  no  error  ! 


LADY  PATRICIA  99 

Baldwin. 

Minds  me  of  an  ole  cat  as  used  to  yeowl  night 
after  night  in  the  rubub  beds. 

Ellis. 

Good  Lord,  Mr.  Baldwin,  'ow  d'you  make  that 
out? 

Baldwin. 

Course  it  ain't  the  same.  'Er  ladyship's  voice 
is  a  rare  treat  to  'ear,  an'  a  cat's  ain't.  But  there's 
somethin'  in  'em  both  as  seems  to  be  callin'  for 
somethin'  else.  'Twas  jest  afore  Mrs.  Baldwin 
'ad  'er  seventh.  An*  yer'd  'ardly  b'lieve  me,  Mr. 
Ellis,  that  cat  'ad  kittens  same  day  as  Mrs. 
Baldwin . 

(With  a  smothered  laugh  Bill  comes  forward. 
Ellis  hastily  picks  up  the  tray  with  the 
cups,  dc.) 

Bill. 

Ah,  whisky -and -soda,  Ellis.     That's  good  ! 

Ellis. 

Yes,  sir.  (He  goes  out  by  the  centre.) 

Bill. 

(Helping  himself  to  whisky -and-soda.)  Well, 
Baldwin,  what  are  you  up  to  ?  Keeping  an  eye  on 
the  sun  so  as  to  lop  off  the  branches  ? 

Baldwin. 

No,  sir.    .   .   .1  was  jest  watching  them  lanterns. 


100  LADY  PATRICIA 

Bill. 

Yes.     They're  very  pretty. 

Baldwin. 

They  do  burn  uncommon  quick. 

Bill. 

.Well,  they're  made  of  paper,  you  know. 

Baldwin. 

Yessir.    ...  It  was  the  candles  I  was  alludin* 

of,  sir.     They  do  burn (A  lantern  goes  out.) 

Ho! 

(He  fiddles  about  with  the  string,  Bill  watch- 
ing him  with  a  smile.  Suddenly  halfway 
up  the  central  ladder  you  hear  the  voice 
of  Lady  Patricia  sweetly  humming. 
Bill  throws  a  wild  glance  around  him.) 
Bill. 

Don't  give  me  away,  Baldwin. 

(He    darts    into    the    summer-house    at    the 
hack  and  locks  the  door.) 

Baldwin. 

'Iding-seek !    .    .    .     (Lowering    the    lantern.) 
.Whoa !   .    .    . 

(Lady  Patricia  enters.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

Bill?   .    .    .    (Looks  around.)      Who   were   you 
talking  to  just  now,  Baldwin? 


LADY  PATRICIA'  101 

Baldwin. 

Mr.  O'Farrel,  mum. 

Lady  Pateicia. 

Yes  ;    I  thought  so— but  I  don't  see   him. 

Baldwin. 

No,  mum.  ' 

Lady  Patricia. 
.Where  is  he? 

Baldwin. 

'E's  gorne,  m'lady. 

Lady  Patricia. 
Gone? 

Baldwin. 

Yes'm.     You  gave  yerself  away,  mum,  you  did 
D'rectly  'e  'eard  your  ladyship's  voice  'e  was  gorne, 
mum. 

Lady  Patricia. 

{Amazed.)  I  gave  myself  away?  Directly  he 
heard  my  voice  he  was  gone? 

Baldwin. 

'Twas  like  as  when  you  come  up  'ere  before 
a-lookin'  for  the  master.  Mr.  O'Farrel,  'e  was 
'ere  then,  mum.     'E  'eard  you,  an'  'e  jest  ran. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Mr.  O'Farrel  heard  me  and  he  ran? 


iOl2  LADY  PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

Yes'm.  An'  if  you'll  h'excuse  my  sayin'  so, 
muin,  it  ain't  gumptious  to  sing  when  playin' 
'iding-seek. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Playing   hide-and-seek?   ... 

Baldwin. 
Yes'm. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Hide-and-seek  !  What  on  earth  are  you  talking 
ahout?  I  really  am  afraid,  Baldwin,  the  full 
moon  must  have  deprived  you  of  your  few  remain- 
ing wits.  Do  you  seriously  mean  to  tell  me  that 
Mr.  OTarrel  ran  away  twice  because  he  heard  me 
coming  ? 

Baldwin. 
lYes'm. 

Lady  Patricia. 

(After  a  dumbfounded  pause.)  Where  did  he 
go  to? 

Baldwin. 

(Knowingly.)  Beggin'  yer  pardon,  mum,  I 
really  couldn't  tell  yer  that. 

Lady  Patricia. 

You 

(Clare   enters  on   the   left  unperceived,   and 
slips  cautiously  behind  the  trunk.) 


LADY  PATRICIA  103 

Baldwin.  ,t3 

I  arst  you,  mum,  would  it  be  playin'  fair  on 
the  young  gentleman? 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Edging  rather  nervously  away  from  him.)  I 
think  you  had  better  go  home  now,  Baldwin .  I  am 
afraid  you  are  not  quite  well.  Tell  Mrs.  Baldwin 
to  come  and  see  me  to-morrow. 

Baldwin. 
Yes'm. 

(Lady  Patricia  goes  out  on  the  left,  throw- 
ing a  nervous  look  hack  at  Baldwin,  who 
nods  his  head  triumphantly  and  pulls  up 
the  lantern.  Clare  emerges  from  behind 
the  trunk  and  tiptoes  towards  him.) 

Baldwin. 
Whoa  ! 

Clare. 
S-sh* 

Baldwin. 

Lord-a-mercy  ! 

Clare. 

Language,  Baldwin  ! 

Baldwin. 

"Yer  did  give  me  a  turn,  m.iss. 


104  LADY  PATKICIA 

Clare. 

Sorry  !  Hullo,  drinks  !  {Goes  to  the  edge  of 
the  platform  and  looks  cautiously  over.)  The 
coast's  clear.     I'll  have  some  soda-water. 

Baldwin. 

'Iding-seek  do  give  you  a  bit  of  a  thirst,  miss. 

Clare. 

(Astonished . )     Hide-and-seek  ? 

Baldwin. 
iYes,  miss. 

Clare. 

Why,  have  you  been  playing  hide-and-seek? 

Baldwin. 
Me,  miss  ? 

Clare. 

Didn't  you  say  so  just  now?  Eeally,  Baldwin, 
for  a  person  of  your  age  !  And  now  you  want 
a  drink?  Well,  I've  no  objection,  though  it  looks 
uncommonly  as  if  you  had  helped  yourself 
already. 

(She  points  to  Bill's  half-filled  glass.) 

Baldwin. 

(Excitedly.)  Me,  miss?  I  give  you  my  word, 
miss.     Why,  that's — ^that's 

Michael. 

(His  voice  is  heard  calling  softly  beneath.) 
Clare.    ... 


LADY  PATRICIA  105 

Clare. 

{To  Baldwin,  in  a  fierce  whisper,)     Hush  ! 
Don't  say  where  I  am  ! 

(She  runs  to  the  summer-house  and  gains  the 
door  just  as  Michael  emerges  up  the 
central  ladder.  She  finds  the  door  locked. 
The  key  turns  in  the  lock  audibly,  the  door 
opens,  and  Bill's  hand  seizes  her  arm 
and  pulls  her  inside.) 

Clare. 
Oh!  .   .  . 

Bill. 
Hush! 

(Draws  her  into  the  summer-house,  closes  and 
locks  the  door.) 

Baldwin. 

(In  unrestrained  delight.)   Haw  !   Haw  !   Haw  I 
Haw.! 

Michael. 

(Looking  around   him.)     Wasn't   Miss   Lesley 
speaking  to  you  a  second  ago,  Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

She  were,  sir.     Haw  !     Haw  ! 

Michael. 

(Regarding      the      amused      Baldwin      with 
severity.)     Where  did  she  go  to? 


106  LADY  PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

She's  gorne,  sir. 

Michael. 

I  asked  you  where  she  had  gone  to. 

Baldwin. 

No,  sir  ;  I  couldn't  tell  yer  that,  sir.  I  reely 
couldn't.  (fle  guffaws  again,) 

Michael. 

Have  you  been  drinking,  Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

Me,  sir?  Drinking?  'Pon  me  honour,  sir,  I 
ain't  touched  a  drop  o'  that  whisky.  It's  mortal 
'ard,  sir,  that  a  man  o'  my  years  should  be  tole 
'e's  in  liquor  twice  in  one  evenin'  !  An'  me  teetotal 
'cept  for  me  pint  o'  four-'arf  at  dinner  an'  supper 
and  a  drop  o'  somethin'  on  Saturday  night. 

Michael. 

Do  you  know  the  day  of  the  week,  Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

{After  a  pause.)  Lor',  sir,  if  it  ain't  Sat'day. 
.    .   .  But  I  give  you  me  word,  sir,  I  ain't 

Michael. 

Very  well,  Baldwin.  But  you  must  admit  that 
your  conduct  was  peculiar.  Perhaps  now  you  will 
be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  where  Miss  Lesley 
went  to. 


LADY  PATRICIA  107 

Baldwin. 

She — she {Re  starts  laughing  again.) 

Michael. 

Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  she  has  climbed  up  the 
tree  again? 

Baldwin. 

Maybe  she  'as,  sir,  an'  maybe  she  'asn*t.  Haw  ! 
Haw  J 

Michael. 

{Angrily.)  Fool!  {Goes  to  the  trunk y  and, 
standing  in  the  shadow,  looks  up  into  the 
branches.)  Clare.  .  .  .  Clare.  ...  I  see  you, 
you  naughty  little  girl.  .  .  .  You've  led  me  la 
pretty  dance  to-night.  .  .  .  Clare.  ...  If  you 
don't  come  down  I'll  climb  up  and  fetch 
you.    .   .    . 

(Lady  Pateicia  enters  quickly  on  the  left.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

{To  Baldwin,  her  finger  on  her  lip.)     Hush  ! 

{She  tiptoes  quickly  across  the  stage  and  seizes 
Michael  by  the  shoulders.) 

Michael. 

Oh  !     {He  faces  her  and  falls  back.)    Patricia  1 

Lady  Patricia. 

{Falling  back  an  amazed  step.)    Michael  1 


108  LADY  PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

fjn  an  ecstasy  of  glee.)     The  wrong  man  !     Oh, 
Lord  !    Oh,  Lord  ! 

(Re  doubles  up  with  laughter.  Lady 
Patricia  and  Michael  regard  him  in 
silent  amazement  and   consternation.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

(^To  Michael.)     I'm  afraid  he's 

(Touches  her  forehead.) 
Michael. 

Good  God  !   .   .  . 

Lady  Patricia. 

(^Gently.)    Don't  you  think  it's  better  you  went 
now,  Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

Oh,  Lord  !    Oh,  Lord  ! 

Michael. 

lYou  ought  to  stay  in  bed  to-morrow. 

Baldwin. 

Bed,  sir?   .   .   . 

Lady  Patricia. 

Or  sit  quietly  in  the  sweet  sunshine   at  your 
cottage  door. 

Baldwin. 
Yes'm.   .  .  . 


LADY  PATRICIA  109 

Lady  Patricia. 

Good-night,  Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

Good-night,  mum.     Good-night,  sir. 

(Re  walks  stolidly  to  the  ladder  on  the  left; 
then,  just  before  descending,  starts  once 
more  guffawing  and  continues  as  he 
descends.  Lady  Patricia  and  Michael 
look  at  each  other  in  pitying  astonish- 
ment.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

Poor  old  man  !      I  fear  he  is  breaking  up   at 
last  1 

Michael. 

God  forgive  me,  dearest ;   I  thought  he  had  been 
drinking . 

Lady  Patricia. 

Let  us  make  the  twilight  of  his  long  day  full 
of  peace  and  fragrance. 

Michael. 

He  shall  never  want. 
(A  nightingale  begins  its  song  in  the  distance.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

Ah,  listen  !    Ah,  listen,  dear  heart ! 

Michael. 

The  nightingale. 


110  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Patricia. 

iWe  have  not  far  to  go,  you  and  I,  to  reach  that 
land  where  music  and  moonlight  and  feeling  are 
one  ! 

Michael. 

Music  and  moonlight  and  feeling 

Lady  Patricia. 
Are  one.   ... 

Michael. 
Sweet  bird  ! 

(A  pause.     They  listen  *'  emparadised  in  one 
another's  arms.'') 

Lady  Patricia. 

But  where  have  you  been,  dearest?  For  the  last 
half -hour  I  have  been  looking  for  you  down 
shadowy  paths  and  by  moonlit  waters. 

Michael. 

And  I  for  you. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Cousin  Bill  went  indoors  as  he  had  something 
he  wished  to  say  to  his  mother.  So  I  seized  the 
opportunity  to  find  you. 

Michael. 

Miss  Lesley  left  me  to  speak  to  her  father — 
and  I  thought  I  would  snatch  a  beautiful  moment 
with  my  wife. 


LADY  PATRICIA  111 

Lady  Patricia. 

Cousin  Bill  said  he  would  come  back  to  me  in 
a  moment. 

Michael. 

Miss  Lesley  too.  I'm  afraid  they  may  be  hunt- 
ing for  us. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Poor  children  !  But  they  will  forgive  us  when 
they  know  we  have  been  together — and  so  happy. 
Tell  me,  dear,  why  were  you  looking  so  fixedly 
up  the  tree  when  I  came  just  now? 

(Michael   looks  apprehensively   towards   the 
tree,) 

Michael. 

I — I  was  looking  for  a  nightingale. 

Lady  Patricia. 

A  nightingale?   ... 

Michael. 
Yes. 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  thought  for  a  moment  some  one  had  climbed 
the  tree,  as  you  seemed  to  be  speaking  up  into  it. 

Michael. 

I  was  making  fluting  sounds  so  as  to  encourage 
the  bird  to  sing- 


112  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Patricia. 

How  clever  of  you,  dear!     And  now  it's  sing- 
ing in  the  bushes  near  the  pond. 

Michael. 

Perhaps  I  frightened  it  out  of  the  tree. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Perhaps  you  did.   .    .    .  Darling. 

Michael. 
Yes? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  child  may 
misconstrue  your  beautiful  friendship  for  her? 

Michael. 

(^Startled.)     Clare ! 

Lady  Patricia. 
JiColdly.)     Clare? 

Michael. 

Er — Miss  Lesley? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Yes. 

Michael. 

Oh,  Patricia,  how  can  you  think  such  a  thing  I 
Our  friendship  is  like  the  friendship  of  two  men 
or  two  women,  the  elder  tenderly  guiding  the 
younger   towards   a   higher,   saner,   nobler,   larger 


LADY  PATRICIA  113 

view  of  life.     (JBLe  glances  apprehensively  at  the 
tree.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

Exquisite  !  Ideal  !  But  haven't  you  noticed, 
Michael,  that  the  child  no  longer  accepts  your 
companionship  with  the  same  frank  pleasure  as 
before?  I  have  watched  her  lately.  It  seems  to 
me  as  though  she  were  always  trying  to  avoid 
you. 

Michael. 

{Boused.)    Avoid  we.'    Clare! 

Lady  Patricia. 

Do  you  call  her  by  her  Christian  name? 

Michael.  .  _.^  ^ 

Only  in  moments  of  excitement.  Avoid  me  ! 
Impossible  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

No,  dear,  not  impossible.  And  when  a  girl 
pointedly  avoids  a  man,  it  too  often  means — pursue 
me. 

Michael. 

{Distinctly  relieved.)  Ah !  .  .  .Ah !  yes. 
But  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Indeed,  I  hope  so.  But  you  must  be  careful. 
You  are  so  attractive,  Michael. 

8 


114  LADY  PATRICIA 

Michael. 

Oh,  nonsense,  darling  !  .  .  .  Strangely  enough, 
a  week  or  two  ago  I  was  on  the  point  of  warning 
you  in  just  the  same  way. 

Lady  Pateicia. 
Warning  me? 

Michael. 

I  used  to  watch  that  boy's  eyes  when  he  looked 
at  you.     They  were  the  eyes  of  a  loving  spaniel. 

Lady  Pateicia. 
Cousin  Bill's? 

Michael. 

Yes  ;  and  I  felt  sorry  for  him.  But  I  think 
his  infatuation  was  only  temporary. 

Lady  Pateicia. 

(Sharply.)     Temporary?     What  do  you  mean? 

Michael. 

He  no  longer  sits  at  your  feet  and  follows  you 
about  as  much  as  he  used  to. 

Lady  Pateicia. 

You  are  quite  wrong.  His  cousinly  affection 
is  the  same  now  as  it  ever  was.  He  was  never 
in  any  way  infatuated. 

Michael. 

How  could  he  help  it,  dearest?  You  are  so 
wonderful*! 


LADY  PATRICIA  115 

Lady  Pateicia. 

Am  I?     I  wonder  I      (A  pause.)     I  think  we 
really  ought  to  join  the  others  now,  dearest. 

Michael. 

(With  a  glance  into  the  tree.)     Very  well. 

(Lady  Pateicia,  who  has  moved  towards  the 
ladder  on  the  lefty  turns  and  notices 
Michael's  upward  gaze.) 

Lady  Pateicia. 
What  is  it,  dear? 

Michael. 

I — I  was  looking  for  a  star. 

Lady  Pateicia. 

.Which  star? 

Michael. 
Arcturus . 

Lady  Pateicia. 

But  Arcturus  is  low  in  the  west. 

Michael. 

How  stupid  of  me  ! 

(They  go  out.  The  stage  is  empty  for  a 
moment.  The  nightingale  sings  on.  Then 
Baldwin  enters— hurriedly  for  him — up  the 
central  ladder.  He  goes — softly  for  him 
— to  the  summer-house,  after  carefully  look- 
over  the  edge  of  the  platform  to  see 


116  LADY  PATRICIA 

that  the  coast  is  quite  clear.  He  listens, 
nods  his  head,  and  grins.  Then  he  taps 
gently  on  the  door  and  listens  again.  Re- 
ceiving no  reply,  he  tups  once  more  and 
listens.  Finally  he  speaks  in  a  husky 
whisper.) 

Baldwin. 

It's  all  right,  sir.  It's  all  right,  miss.  They've 
gorne.  (The  summer-house  remains  silent.) 
They've  gorne.  .  .  .  It's  all  right,  sir.  (Taps 
at  the  door.)  They've  gorne.  (Taps  again  after 
a  pause.)     They've  gorne.    .   .   . 

(The  door  suddenly  flies  open.) 
Bill. 

(In  the  doorway.)  What  the  devil  d'you  want, 
Baldwin  ? 

Baldwin. 

Beg  pardon,  sir? 

Bill. 

What  do  you  want  ? 

Baldwin. 

They've  goi^e,  sir. 

Bill. 

I  can't  help  that,  can  I? 

Baldwin. 
No,  sir. 

Bill. 

Well,  then? 


LADY  PATRICIA  117 

Baldwin. 

You  see,  sir,  it's  like  this.     I  thought  as  'ow 

Clare. 

(Invisible  in  the  dark  interior  of  the  summer- 
house.)  Oh,  Baldwin,  for  the  love  of  heaven, 
hook  it  ! 

Baldwin. 
'Ookit? 

Clare. 

Yes  ;    run  away,  like  a  dear. 

Baldwin. 

Very  good,  miss. 

(Baldwin  goes  out  hy  the  central  ladder,) 

"Bill. 

(Speaking  into   the  summer -house.)     Darling. 

Clare. 

(In  the  summer-house.)  You've  pulled  all  my 
hair  down 

Bill. 
Oh,  I 


Clare. 

I've  lost  at  least  six  hair-pins.      You  needn't 
have  heen  so  rough. 

Bill. 

I'm    awfully    sorry,    darling— but (He   is 

about  to  re-enter  the  summer-house.) 


118  LADY  PATRICIA 

Claee. 

No,  stay  where  you  are.    .    .    . 

{She    emerges   from    the   summer-house^    and 
moves  past  him  to  the  front  of  the  plat- 
form.     Her    hair    is   all    loose   and    dis- 
hevelled.    She  starts  shaking  it  out.) 
Bill. 

Darling 

Clare. 

Don't  touch  me.   .   .   . 

Bill. 

Clare  I   .   .   . 

Clare. 

Please  find  those  hair-pins,  and  the  two  side- 
combs.     They're  all  real  tortoise-shell. 

Bill. 

But  I  say 

Clare. 

Find  those  hair-pins,  or,  at  any  rate,  the  side- 
combs. 

Bill. 

Oh,  all  right.   .   .   . 

(Re  goes  into  the  summer-house,  strikes  a 
match,  and  searches  about  the  floor  for  the 
missing  hair-pins.  Clare  stands  plaiting 
her  hair  into  a  **  pigtail,''  and  looking 
straight  before  her  with  very  grave  eyes.) 


LADY  PATRICIA  119 

Bill. 

{Rolf  to  himself  while  searching.)  Here  are  a 
couple.  .  .  .  By  Jove  !  one  of  'em's  got  rammed 
tight  behind  the  seat.  .  .  .  Another — ^that's  three. 
.  .  .  Four !  .  .  .  I've  found  one  of  the  side- 
combs.  ...  I  say,  they  are  jolly  pretty  !  .  .  . 
-Where  the  deuce  has  t'other  one  got  to?  .  .  .  Oh, 
Lord,  I'm  awfully  sorry  !  It's  smashed.  I  put  my 
clumsy  hoof  on  it.  .  .  .  {He  joins  her  at  the 
front  of  the  'platform.) 

Clare. 

It's  all  right.   ... 

Bill. 

But (Looks  at  her  with  puzzled  eyes.)     I 

say,  darling,  is  anything  the  matter  with  you? 
(Puts  his  arm  around  her.)     A  moment  ago 

Clare. 

(Freeing  herself.)  You  must  never  call  me 
that  again. 

Bill. 

Call  you  what? 

Clare. 

'-*  DarUng." 

Bill. 
But 

Clare. 

Or  put  your  arm  round  me.    .    .    . 


120  LADY  PATRICIA 

Bill. 
But 


Claee. 

(Passionately.)  Oh,  Bill,  I  was  mad — I  lost 
my  head — I  forgot.  ...  It  was  so — so  thrilling 
in  there.  ...  I  should  never  have  let  you — I 
should  never  have  let  you.    .    .    . 

Bill. 

But  I — I  only  kissed  you. 

Clabb. 

.You — ^you 

Bill. 

And  told  you  that  I  loved  you. 

Claee. 
Yes.  .   .  . 

Bill. 

And  you  said  you  loved  me.   .   .   . 

Claee. 
I  didn't ! 

Bill. 

You  kissed  me. 

Claee. 

That's  not  the  same  thing. 

Bill. 

Then  you  don't  love  me  ? 


LADY  PATRICIA  121 

Claee. 

I  never  said  so. 

Bill. 

Do  you  love  me,  Clare? 

Claee. 

I  should  never  have  kissed  you  if  I  didn't. 

Bill. 

Clare  !     (Tries  to  take  her  in  his  arms.) 

Claee. 

(Decidedly.)     No.   .   .   . 

Bill. 

■No?  .  .   . 

Claee. 

I  am  not  free. 

Bill. 

Not    .    .    .   free.    .    .    .   Then    you're — ^you're — 
engaged  ? 

Claee. 

No. 

Bill. 

No?   .   .   .  But 


Claee. 

I  am  not  free. 

Bill. 

But  you're  not  engaged? 


122  LADY  PATRICIA 

Clare. 
No. 

Bill. 

Clare  !  You  don't  mean — you  can't  mean  that 
you  are  married?   .   .   . 

Clare. 
Married  ? 

Bill. 

Yes — married  ! 

Clare. 

Don't  be  silly. 

Bill. 

-That's  no  answer.     Are  you  married? 

Clare. 

Of  course  I'm  not. 

Bill. 

You're  neither  engaged  nor  married — but  you're 
not  free  to  marry  me.     What  does  it  all  mean? 

Clare. 

You  must  be  content  with  that. 

Bill. 

Must  I?  Then  you  don't  know  me.  I'll  give  you 
no  rest — I'll  persecute  you  night  and  day  till  I 
get  at  the  truth. 

Clare. 

^After   a   pause.)      You   may   be   right,    Bill ; 


LADY  PATRICIA  123 

perhaps    I   do    owe   you    an    explanation   since   I 
allowed  you  to  kiss  me.   .    .   . 

Bill. 

And  kissed  me.   .   .   . 

Clare. 

{Tragically .)     I  belong  to  another  man.   .   . 

Bill. 

But  you  said  just  now 

Clare. 

Whom  I  csin  never  marry.  ... 

Bill. 

What ! 

Clare. 

Because  he  is  already  married. 

Bill. 

(JSorrified.)    Clare!   you — ^you 

Clare. 

(Loftily.)    Our  bond  is  purely  of  the  spirit. 

Bill. 

Eh? 

Clare. 

(Unconsciously  imitating  Michael's  manner.) 
He  is  a  noble  and  high-souled  gentleman.  His  life 
is  one  long  self-sacrifice  for  the  woman  whom  he 
married.      She   loves   him,   and   for   her   sake   he 


124  LADY  PATRICIA 

fought  against  his  love  for  me.  But  that  love 
mastered  him :  he  confessed  it.  I  told  him  it 
was  returned,  though  I  know  now  it  was  the  pity 
and  friendship  I  felt  for  him  which  I  mistook  for 
love.  We  promised  to  be  true  to  each  other.  I 
cannot — I  dare  not  break  my  promise.  My  love  is 
all  he  has  to  make  life  bearable.   .    .    . 

(Bill  is  about  to  speak  when  Lady  Patricia's 
voice,  singing  in  the  distance,  brings  him 
up  with  a  jerk.  He  listens  a  moment. 
When  he  speaks  his  tone  is  one  of 
dismay.) 
Bill. 

Great — Scott ! 

Clare. 

(Coldly.)    I  beg  your  pardon? 

Bill, 

I  say,  Clare,  d'you  know  I've  made  an  ass  of 
myself  in  just  the  same  way  as  you  ! 

Clare. 

An  ass?   .   .    .  Will  you  kindly  explain  your- 
self. 

Bill. 

I  had  no  right  to  tell  you  I  loved  you,  because 
I  am  bound  to  another  woman. 

Clare. 

Not — not  to  a  married  woman? 


LADY  PATRICIA  125 

Bill. 

A  married  woman.   .   .   . 
Claee. 

Oh,  how  dreadful  ! 
Bill. 

Our  bond  is  purely  of  the  spirit. 
Claee. 

Oh  ?   .   .   .  iWhat  is  she  like  ? 
Bill. 

Noble  and  high-souled  like  your 

Claee. 

Is  she   pretty? 
Bill. 

Oh,  yes,  she 

Claee. 

Did  you  love  her? 

Bill. 

Till  I  met  you  five  weeks  ago  I  believe  I  did. 

Then  I Anyhow,  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  stick 

to  her.     If  I  threw  her  over  now  I  don't  know 
what  the  poor  woman  would  do. 

Claee. 

You  have  a  pretty  high  notion  of  your  attrac- 
tions . 

Bill. 

And  you  of  yours. 


126  LADY  PATRICIA 

Claee. 

You  appear  to  forget  that  I  am  a  woman. 

(You  hear  Lady  Pateicia's  voice  just  beneath 
talking  to  Michael.  Bill  exclaims  with 
a  scared  look:) 

She's  coming  here  !   .   .   . 

Claee. 

kWell?  .  .  .  (With  dawning  comprehension. 
She  seizes  his  arm.)  Bill — you  don't  mean  to  say- 
that  she 

(Michael  is  heard  replying  to  Lady 
Pateicia.  Claee  whispers  with  startled 
eyes:) 

That's  he  ! 

Bill. 

(Staring  at  her.)  That's  Michael.  .  .  .  Good 
God  !  Clare,  it's  not — it's  not  Michael  that  you 

Claee. 

Hush  !   .   .    .  They're  going  past.   .   .   . 

Bill. 

(In  a  fierce  undertone.)     The  blackguard  ! 

Claee. 

iWhat  do  you  mean? 

Bill. 

If  I  Jiadn't  been  a  blind  fool,  I  would  have  seen 
through  this  precious  friendship  for  you  long  ago. 


LADY  PATRICIA  127 

It  never  dawned  on  me  that  the  fellow  was  such 
a  scoundrel.  And  a  precious  hypocrite,  too,  by 
Jove !  Playing  up  so  as  to  make  that  poor, 
trusting  woman  believe  him  madly  in  love  with 
her.    .   .    . 

Clare. 

That  poor,  trusting  woman?  Are  you,  by  any 
chance,   speaking   of   Patricia? 

Bill. 

Of  course  I  am.  Hanging  about  her  neck  while 
all  the  time  he's  making  love  to  an  innocent  girl ! 
It's   perfectly   disgusting  ! 

Clare. 

And  what  has  your  noble,  high-souled  Patricia 
been  doing,  I  should  like  to  know?  Shamming 
infatuation  for  poor  Michael  to  hide  her  shameful 
flirtation  with  a  callow  boy. 

Bill. 

It  was  not  a  shameful  flirtation — and  I'm  no 
more  a  callow  boy  than  you  are. 

Clare. 

What  amazes  me  is  that  you  should  ever  have 
allowed  yourself  to  be  fooled  by  a  shallow,  deceit- 
ful poseuse  like  Patricia. 

Bill. 

She  hasn't  fooled  me.  She's  deeply  and  truly 
in  love  with  me. 


128  LADY  PATRICIA 

Clare. 

Contradiction  isn't  argument :   it's  merely  rude. 

Bill. 

If  it  had  been  any  one  else  but  Michael  there 
might  have  been  some  excuse  for  you.  But 
Michael !  How  could  you  ?  A  dull,  priggish 
ass 

Clare. 

He's  not  a  dull,  priggish  ass  ! 

Bill. 

Contradiction  isn't  argument :   it's  merely  rude. 

Clare. 

How  dare  you  speak  to  me  like  that  I 

Bill. 

(Sulkily.)    I  beg  your  pardon. 

(fle  moves  away  from  her,  and  they  both  stand 
staring  in  opposite  directions.) 

Clare. 

(After,  a  pause.)  I  don't  think  there's  anything 
more  to  be  said. 

Bill. 

Neither  do  I. 

(A  pause.) 
Clare. 

Nothing. 


LADY  PATRICIA  129 

Bill. 

Nothing. 

(A   pause.) 
Clare. 

Things  must  remain  as  they  are. 

Bill. 

Yes,  I  suppose  they  must. 

(A  pause.) 
Clare. 

Of  course,  any  one  who  was  at  all  unprejudiced 
would  see  at  once  the — ^the  higher  morality  of  my 
decision . 

Bill. 

The  what? 

Clare. 

The  higher  morality.  Michael  has  often  told  me 
that  our  pure  love  and  the  fact  that  he  does  his 
duty  as  best  he  can  to  his  wife  are  the  only 
things  that  keep  him  from  suicide.    .   .    . 

Bill. 

(Under  his  breath.)     Bosh  ! 

Clare. 

I  beg  your  pardon? 

Bill. 

Nothing.  .  .  .  It's  aw^fully  funny  to  think  of 
Michael  spooning  away  with  you  and  Patricia 
and  boring  you  both  to  death  without  knowing  it. 

9 


130  LADY  PATRICIA 

Clare. 

I  don't  see  that  it's  any  funnier  than  Patricia 
doing  the  same  with  you  and  Michael. 

Bill. 

Well,  anyhow,  I  shall  have  to  stick  to  Patricia — 
not  because  of  "  higher  morality  " — whatever  that 
means — ^but  because  I  know  she  would  pine  away 
if  I  left  her  now. 

Clare. 
Tchah  ! 

{They  stand  miserably  silent,  looking  in  oppo- 
site directions.  The  nightingale  starts 
singing,  and  sings  through  the  next  scene. 
The  voices  of  the  Dean  and  Mrs. 
O'Farrel  come  up  from  beneath.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Well,  I  find  it  chilly,  Dean — distinctly  chilly. 

Dean. 

For  Whitsuntide,  dear  lady — surely  not.  True, 
Whitsuntide  is  very  late  this  year.    .   .    . 

(Mrs.  O'Farrel  enters,  followed  by  the 
Dean,  up  the  central  ladder.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Why,  here's  the  child  !  All  alone,  my  dear? 
Whatever  have  you  been  doing  to  your  hair? 

Clare. 

It's  such  a  hot  night  I  had  to  take  it  down. 


LADY  PATRICIA  131 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
Hot? 

Dean. 

But,  my  dear  child,  you  can't  possibly  go  home 
like  that ! 

Clare. 

I'll  put  it  up  when  I  get  back  to  the  house. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

(Perceiving  Bill.)     Is  that  my  son? 

Bill. 

(Gloomily.)     Hullo,  mater.   .    .   . 

Dean. 

Enchanting  night,  my  boy  ! 

Bill. 

(As  before.)     Awfully  jolly.   .   .   . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

And  where  are  the  others? 

Clare. 

I  don't  know. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Sentimentalising  in  the  moonlight.    .   .    . 

Clare. 

I  suppose  so. 

(Mrs.    O'Farrel    regards    both    the    young 
people  critically  through  her  lorgnette.) 


132  LADY  PATRICIA 

Dean. 

{Breezily.)     And  what  have  you  two  been  up 
to? 

Bill. 

Mootching  around. 

Clare. 

Pla5dng  about. 

Dean. 

Your  mother  and  I  thought  we'd  like  a  little 
stroll  before  going  home. 

Bill. 

Good  idea.    .   .    . 
(The  Dean  fixes  his  monocle,  and,  ^lightly 
puzzled,  scrutinises  them  each  in  turn.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

What's  the  matter  with  you  both? 

Bill  and  Clare. 
The  matter?   .    .   . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Have  you  been  quarrelling? 

Bill  and  Clare. 
Quarrelling?   ... 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

You're  as  sulky  as  two  bears. 

Bill  and  Clare. 
I? 


LADY  PATRICIA  133 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

As  two  bears.     Aren't  they,  Dean? 

Dean. 

Sulky  ?  No,  no  ;  surely  not  sulky  !  Chastened  ! 
Thoughtful !  A  little  overcome,  perhaps,  by  the 
beauty  of  the  night — as  all  sensitive  young  souls 
should  be. 

Mrs.  0  Farrel. 

H'm  !   .    .   .  Sensitive   young  souls  !   .   .    . 

(Lady  Patricia,  followed  by  Michael,  enters 
on  the  left.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

All  of  you  ?  But  how  charming !  How  de- 
lightful ! 

Dean. 

Dear  Lady  Patricia  ! 

(Michael  moves  towards  Clare,  who  evades 
his  ardent  gaze.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

WhdX  have  you  been  doing  with  yourselves? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Looking  at  the  guelder-roses  in  the  moonlight, 
and  wondering  whether  they  were  guelder-roses  at 
all  or  great  pearls. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Personally  I  should  say  they  were  guelder- 
roses. 


134  LADY   PATRICIA 

Lady  Pateicia. 

Ah,  but  dear  Aunt  Eileen,  how  can  you  tell 
what  pranks  the  fairies  may  not  play  on  such  a 
night  as  this? 

Dean. 

What  an  exquisite  fancy  ! 

Bill. 

(Who  has  been  looking  jealousy  at  Clare  and 
Michael.  He  speaks  defiantly  with  eyes  on 
Clare.)     I  say.  Cousin  Patricia.    .    .    . 

Lady  Patricia. 
Yes,  Cousin  Bill? 

(Clare  looks  at  them.) 
Bill. 

If  it  wouldn't  bother  you  too  much,  I  wonder 
if  you'd  care  to  take  me  to  have  a  look  at  those 
thingumybob  roses .     It  would  be  simply  corking  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  shall  be  charmed.  Cousin  Bill.  We'll  settle 
the  question  of  guelder-rose  or  pearl  together. 

(They  move  towards  the  ladder  on  the  left.) 

Clare. 

(In  a  low  voice  to  Bill  as  he  passes  her.) 
Worm  !  (In  a  defiant  voice  to  Michael.)  Mr. 
Cosway,  you've  never  shown  me  the — the  what's - 
its -name.   .   .   . 


LADY  PATRICIA  135 

Michael. 

The  spiral  nebula  in  Andromeda?  It's  scarcely 
favourable  for  a  view  of  the  nebula  to-night.  Shall 
we  look  at  the  mountains  of  the  moon? 

Claee . 

Thanks  awfully. 

(She  and  Michael  move  to  the  central 
ladder.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

(To  Bill  as  they  descend  on  the  left.)  Do  you 
believe  in  fairies,  Cousin  Bill? 

Michael. 

(To  Clare  as  they  descend  the  central  ladder.) 

1  have  often  wondered  how  the  night  would  look  if 
we  had  nine  moons  like  Jupiter. 

(A  pause.  The  Dean  looks  disapprovingly 
after  the  disappearing  Bill,  Mrs. 
O'Farrel  through  her  lorgnette  after 
Clare.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
H'm.  .   .   . 

Dean. 

I  beg  your  pardon  ?   .  .  .  You  were  saying  ?  .  .  . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

I  didn't  say  anything.     I  was  thinking. 


136  LADY  PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Ah,  thinking— yes,  thinking.  ...  So  was  I. 
...  By  the  way,  Eileen,  your — er— cherished 
project  for  marrying  Clare  to  your  son  doesn't 
appear  to  be  materialising  quite— er— satisfactorily. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
No,  it  doesn't. 

Dean. 

Not  quite  as  smoothly  as  we — as  you  hoped. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Give  me  a  whisky -and -soda. 

Dean. 

A  whisky 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
And  soda. 

{The  Dean  pours  out  a  drop  of  whisky,) 

Go  on.   .   .   . 

(The  Dean  sets  the  syphon  going.) 

Nearly  full.  .  .  .  When  !  .  .  .  And  you  had 
better  take  something  as  well — to  fortify  yourself 
against  what  I  am  going  to  say. 

Dean. 

Ah.  ...  A  little  soda-water.  {Helps  him- 
self.) So  you  are  going  to  be  unpleasant,  my  dear 
Eileen  ? 


LADY  PATRICIA  137 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

I  am.  Those  two  had  been  quarrelling  just 
now. 

Dean. 

That  was   evident — even   to   me. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

They  had  been  quarrelling  bitterly — and  I  can 
make  a  shrewd  guess  at  the  cause. 

Dean. 
I  also. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Indeed.  Well,  I  think  it's  high  time  to  speak 
plainly. 

Dean. 

I  quite  agree  with  you. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  .  .  .  Bill  had  very 
evidently  been  taking  your  daughter  to  task  for 
her  amazing  indiscretions. 

Dean. 

Amazing  indiscretions?  Clare's?  Will  you 
kindly  be  more  explicit. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

I  mean  to  be.  Perhaps  you  remember  some 
weeks  ago  I  warned  you  that  her  intimacy  with 
Michael  Cosway  ought  to  be  stopped? 


138  LADY  PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Certainly.  And  I  took  leave  to  disagree  with 
you  entirely. 

Mes.  O'Farkel. 

■Well,  you  were  wrong.  You  should  immediately 
have  put  an  end  to  this  intimacy — to  use  the 
mildest  word  for  her  friendship  with  Michael. 

Dean. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel,  is  it  possible  you  are  speaking  of 
my  daughter? 

Mrs.  OTarrel. 

And  it's  your  duty  to  put  an  end  to  it  at  once. 
I  only  hope  that  you  may  not  be  too  late. 

Dean. 

This — this — this  is  beyond  anything  !  .  .  .  Per- 
haps you  will  be  so  good 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Now  then,  Dean,  pray  don't  lose  your  temper. 
It's  neither  wise  nor  becoming,  and  at  our  age 
very  bad  for  the  heart.  Listen  to  me  quietly  for 
a  moment.  I  refused  for  a  long  time  to  believe 
any  ill  of  this — er — friendship.  I  knew  Michael  to 
be  infatuated  with  his  wife,  and  Clare  to  be  a 
healthy -minded  girl.  But  last  week  Emily  Fitz- 
gerald told  me  she  had  seen  Michael  walking  in 
the  Stanton  Woods  with  his  arm  around  Clare's 
shoulder.  She  added  that  the  affair  was  becoming 
quite  notorious  in  the  neighbourhood.  .  .  .  You 
must  act,  and  act  at  once. 


LADY   PATRICIA  139 

Dean. 

Is  that  all?  So  you  condescend  to  listen  to  the 
tittle-tattle  of  a  notorious  old  gossip  like  Emily- 
Fitzgerald  ?     Upon  my  word  I'm  ashamed  of  you  ! 

Mes.  O'Fareel. 

Dean  I     Have  you  taken  leave  of  your  senses  ? 

Dean. 

I  might  well  put  that  question  to  you,  Mrs. 
O'Farrel.  But  I  refrain  from  vulgar  tu  quoque 
repartee.  I  have  no  more  to  say  except  to  warn 
you  that  before  looking  after  the  morals  of  my 
daughter,  you  had  far  better  look  after  those  of 
your  son. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
My  son? 

Dean. 

Precisely — your  son. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

.What  do  you  mean? 

Dean. 

I  and  others — unlike  yourself,  I  will  not  drag  in 
the  names  of  outsiders — have  for  some  time  past 
watched  your  son  and  Lady  Patricia  with  grief 
and  dismay. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
Patricia  ! 


140  LADYI  PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Just  now  you  believed  your  son  had  been  imper- 
tinently taking  Clare  to  task  for  her  charming 
friendship  with  Michael  Cosway.  I  am  convinced 
you  were  mistaken.  It  was  Clare  who  had  been 
warning  your  son  that  his  indiscretions  were  be- 
coming the  talk  of  the  place. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Bill  entangled  with  Patricia  !  And  Clare— C/are 
preaching  propriety  !  It's  too  laughable  !  A  boy's 
innocent  homage  for  a  woman  at  least  ten  years 
his  senior  !     You're  a  very  foolish  old  man. 

Dean. 

Again  I  put  away  from  me  the  tu  quoque  retort. 
.  .  .  Add  two  and  two  together.  I  don't  for  a 
moment  blame  her.  I  can't  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  blame  her.  The  dear  and  beautiful  creature  is 
as  God  made  her :  exquisitely  sensitive,  senti- 
mental and  infinitely  affectionate.  .  .  .  But  I  warn 
you,  Mrs.  O'Farrel,  I  warn  you. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

I  refuse  to  hear  another  word.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself  !  .  .  .  And  the  saddest  part 
of  the  whole  affair  is  my  poor  boy's  undoubted 
affection  for  your  daughter. 

Dean. 

Affection  for  Clare  !     I  don't  believe  it  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Are  you  his  mother? 


LADY  PATRICIA  141 

Dean. 

Certainly  not !  .  .  .  But  I  have  watched  him 
-—with  the  result  that  I  am  convinced  of  his 
infatuation   for  Lady  Patricia. 

Mes.  O'Farrel. 
Fiddle -sticks  ! 

Dean. 

And  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  though  you  will  not 
believe  it,  that  my  poor  girl's  affections  are  centred 
on  your  son. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Oh,  dam'  foolishness  ! 

Dean. 

This  has  gone  far  enough,  Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Quite  far  enough.     I  am  going  home. 

Dean. 

So  am  I. 

(Followed  by  the  Dean,  Mrs.  O'Farrel 
moves  towards  the  central  ladder.  Sud- 
denly he  stopSy  hurries  on  tiptoe  to  the 
hack,  and  looks  cautiously  over  the  railing. 
He  whispers:) 

Eileen  !   .    .   . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
What  is  it? 


142  LADY  PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Hush  !  .  .  .  Clare's  coming  here  with  Michael 
Cosway.  I  offer  you  a  chance  to  substantiate  the 
aspersions  you  have  made  against  her  character. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

What  do  you  mean? 

Dean. 

We  will  conceal  ourselves  in  the  summer-house 
and  hear  what  they  have  to  say  to  each  other. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
Really,   Dean  ! 

Dean. 

We  may  disregard  the  rules  of  ordinary  morality 
in  a  situation  like  this.  I  speak  professionally. 
Quick  !  {Re  draws  her  towards  the  summer- 
house.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Well,  upon  my  word  !    .    .    . 

{They  go  into  the  summer-house,  and  sit  with 
the  door  open,  hut  invisible  in  the  gloom 
of  the  interior.  Voices  are  heard  beneath. 
Then  Clare  enters  on  the  left,  followed 
by  Michael.) 

Clare. 

Father  !  .  .  .  {She  looks  around  her.)  Why, 
they've  gone  !   .   .   . 


LADY   PATRICIA  143 

Michael. 

They  must  have  returned  to  the  house. 

Clare. 

We  had  hetter  go  too. 

Michael. 

Oh,  Clare,  a  moment.  .  .  .  Look  at  me,  dear. 
.    .    .    {He  takes  her  hands.) 

Clare. 
Well? 

Michael. 

Are  you  unhappy  ? 

Clare. 

Why  should  I  be? 

Michael. 

You  are  no  longer  the  wild  and  buoyant  thing 
you  were.  You  have  grown  so  pensive  and  dis- 
trait. And  is  it  my  jealous  imagination  ? — so  often 
lately  you  have  seemed  to  avoid  me.    .    .    . 

Clare. 

I — I'm  sorry   .    .    . 

Michael. 

There's  trouble  in  your  eyes,  my  dearest.  Clare, 
do  you  chafe  at  the  restrictions  fate  has  put  on 
our  love? 

Clare. 

Oh,  I — I  don't  know.     I'm  all  right,  Michael — 


144  LADY  PATRICIA 

but  you We'd   better  go  in   now.      Father's 

waiting  for  me. 

Michael. 
Clare. 

Claee. 
Yes. 

Michael. 

Kiss  me  before  you  go. 

Clare. 

Oh,  not  now.    .   .   . 

Michael. 

(Bending  down  to  her.)     Kiss  me,  dear. 

(She  kisses  him  perfunctorily  on  the  cheek ;  he 
sighs;  she  turns  and  descends  the  ladder 
on  the  left;    he  follows  her.) 

How  sweet  it  is  !   .   .    . 

Clare. 
Sweet? 

Michael. 

Your  "  pigtail,"  dear.  The  sight  of  it  makes  me 
feel  a  boy  again.  I  should  like  to  pull  it  and 
run  away. 

(Clare  laughs  and  they  both  descend  out  of 
sight.  A  pause.  The  nightingale  starts 
singing.  Mrs.  O'Farrel  emerges  from 
the  summer-house.     Her  step  is  almost 


LADY   PATRICIA  145 

jaunty  with  suppressed  triumph y  and  her 
manner  elaborately  off-hand.  The  Dean 
remains   invisible   in    the   summer-house.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Ah,  the  nightingale  !  How  charmingly  it  sings 
CO -night  !  ...  I  do  wish  we  had  some  nightin- 
gales at  Ashurst.  I  suppose  they  prefer  low- 
lying  ground  like  this.  .  .  .  Do  they  sing  in  your 
garden  at  the  Deanery? 

(The  Dean  comes  out  of  the  summer-house  in 
a  very  crestfallen  condition.) 

Dean. 

Eileen 


Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

{Cheerfully.)     Yes? 

Dean. 

This  is  dreadful— dreadful.    .    .    . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

On  the  contrary,  I  think  it's  most  delightful  ! 
One  can  hear  every  note  so  perfectly  at  this 
elevation. 

Dean. 

Is  it  generous  of  you— is  it  generous  of  you, 
Eileen,  to  flaunt  your  terrible  triumph  like  this? 
I  am  heart-broken  !  I  am  distracted  !  What  on 
earth  am  I  to  do? 

10 


146  LADY   PATRICIA 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

{Touring  him  out  a  whisky -and -soda.)  Drink 
this! 

Dean. 

(Pettishly.)     I  don't  care  for  whisky. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Oh,  you  needn't  make  such  a  fuss  !  It's  per- 
fectly obvious  from  what  we  saw  just  now  that 
no  real  harm  has  been  done.  The  way  she  kissed 
Michael (She  bursts  out  laughing.) 

Dean. 

How  can  you,  Eileen?     How  can  you? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

It  reminded  me  of  a  child  taking  castor -oil  ! 
.  .  .  But  Michael — the  double-faced  hypocrisy  of 
the  man  !     I'm  really  very  sorry  for  Patricia. 

Dean. 

I  don't  see  the  necessity  for  lavishing  sympathy 
on  her. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

What  do  you  mean?  Doesn't  she  believe  he 
returns  her  devotion? 

Dean. 

Her  devotion  doesn't  prevent  her  philandering 
with  other  men,  as  I  told  you  just  now. 


LADY   PATRICIA  147 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Well,  upon  my  word  !  I  wouldn't  have  believed 
it  !  In  spite  of  this  gross  example  of  your  obtuse- 
ness,  you  still  have  the — the  audacity  to  stick  to 

your  slander  against  Bill  !     Eeally  I (She 

stops  short,  listens,  then  hurries  to  the  back  and 
looks  over  the  railing.  She  turns  to  the  Dean 
and  speaks  in  a  quick  whisper.)  We  must  hide 
in  the  summer-house.    ... 

Dean. 

Eh?     What? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

At  once  !  Bill  and  Patricia  are  returning  here. 
You  will  see  for  yourself  there's  nothing  more 
between  them  than  cousinly  regard. 

Dean. 

I  refuse  to  eavesdrop  a  lady. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

But  you  deliberately  did  it  a  moment  ago. 

Dean. 

Clare  is  my  daughter. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Fiddlesticks  !  (Pushes  him  hefqre  her.)  Quick 
now  ! 

Dean. 

I  submit 


us  LADY   PATRICIA 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
Hush  ! 

Dean. 

— Under  protest.    .    .    . 

(She  shepherds  the  Dean  into  the  summer- 
house  just  as  Patricia  and  Bill  come 
up  the  central  ladder.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

Cousin  Bill  and  I  have  discovered  that  guelder- 
roses  are  guelder-roses  after  all.  .  .  .  Why,  Bill 
dear,  they're  not  here  ! 

Bill. 

Got  impatient,  I  suppose,  and  went  back  to  the 
house.  About  time  we  did  the  same.  It's  getting 
late. 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Dreamily.)  Too  late,  too  late!  Ye  cannot 
enter  now! 

Bill. 

What  d'you  say? 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  was  quoting  Tennyson. 

Bill. 

Oh.   .   .   . 


LADY  PATRICIA  149 

Lady  Pateicia. 

You  know  the  lines,  don't  you?    Listen  : 

LatCy   late,   so   late!    and  dark   the  night  and 

chill ! 
Late,  late,  so  late,  hut  we  can  enter  still! 
Too  late,   too  late!     Ye  cannot  enter  now!  • 

So  sweet  and  sad,  are  they  not?     Don't  you  love 
sweet,  sad  things? 

Bill. 
Eather. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Bill. 

Rather.    ...  I  say,  hadn't  we  better  be  going? 

Lady  Patricia, 
Bill.  .  .  , 

Bill. 
Yes. 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Her  hands  on  his  shoulders.)     Do  you  love  me 
as  you  used  to? 

Bill. 

I  say,  why  d'you — ^you  don't  think 

Lady  Patricia. 

No — no — no — ah,  no  !     I  know  well  enough  that 


150  LADY  PATRICIA 

your  love  is  deeper  and  stronger  than  it  was. 
But  this  sacred  love — ^this  hopeless  love  of  ours 
has  swept  you  suddenly  into  manhood.  You  are 
no  longer  a  boy  ;  you  are  graver  ;  you  are  sadder. 
.  .  .  And  if  sometimes  you  seem  to  avoid  me  now, 
it's  due  to  no  cooling  of  passion,  but  to  the  fear 
lest  the  pent-up  lava  at  your  heart  should  over- 
flow and  ruin  us  both. 

Bill. 

I  say,  you  do  put  things  awfully  well  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

Petrarch  and  Laura — Paolo  and  Francesca — 
Lancelot  and  Guinevere.  .  .  .  Bill — no,  William 
and  Patricia.  .  .  .  Ah,  my  poor  boy,  put  your 
arm  around  me,  and  say  those  lines  of  Lovelace 
that  I  taught  you. 

Bill. 

Oh,  I  say — ^really,  you  know On  my  honour, 

I've  forgotten  'em.    .   .    . 

Lady  Patricia. 

No,  no  !  You're  merely  shy — bashful — boyish  ! 
I  love  to  hear  you  say  that  verse.  (She  starts 
him.)     Yet  this 

Bill. 

Yet  this— yet  this What's  the  word? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Yet  this  inconstancy 


LADY   PATRICIA  151 

Bill. 

(In  a  self-conscious  sing-song.) 

Yet   this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you,    too,   shall  adore; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honour  more. 

Lady  Pateicia. 

Loved    I    not    honour    more.    .   .    .  Love — duty 

— ^honour (She      sighs      deeply.)        Come, 

dear.    .    .    . 

(They  go  out  on  the  left.  A  pause.  The 
Dean  comes  out  of  the  summer-house.  He 
barely  conceals  his  triumph  under  a  mask 
of  outraged  propriety.  Mrs.  O'Farrel 
follows  him.) 

Dean. 

H'm.    .    .    .   Cousinly   regard  !   .   .   . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

It's  shocking  !     Outrageous  I 

Dean. 

It  is  indeed. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

— That  you  shouldn't  even  pretend  to  hide  your 
satisfaction  at  the  scene  we  have  just  witnessed. 

Dean. 

Satisfaction  !  I  assure  you,  dear  lady,  I'm 
shocked  and  grieved — deeply  grieved,  that  your 
son  should   prove   capable  of  such   depravity. 


152  LADY  PATRICIA 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

My  son  !  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  the 
foolish  boy  has  been  bewitched  by  that  un- 
principled woman. 

Dean. 

Come,  come,  Eileen.  In  common  fairness  we 
should  apportion  the  blame  equally — though,  in- 
deed, my  experience  has  generally  led  me  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  man  is  more  to  blame  in  these 
cases  than  the  woman. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Your  experience  !  Quite  so  !  ...  I  shall  give 
Patricia  my  plain,  unvarnished  opinion  of  herself 
and  forbid  her  my  house.  You  will  tell  Michael 
that  he's  a  scoundrel  and  a  libertine. 

Dean. 

No,  no,  no  !  Tact,  tact,  my  dear  Eileen,  tact 
and  diplomacy  !  .  .  .  Let  us  calmly  review  the 
position.  Cosway's  and  Lady  Patricia's  relations 
with  Clare  and  your  son,  though  highly  culpable, 
appear  to  be  blameless  of  the  worst,  and  con- 
siderably more — er — ardent  on  the  part  of  the 
married  couple  than  of  the  single.  So  much  is 
— er — unhappily  evident.  Now,  do  you  still  main- 
tain that  your  son  is — er — interested  in   Clare? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
I  am  certain  of  it. 

Dean. 

Incredible  !      Of    course,    I    hnow — ^in    spite    of 


LADY   PATRICIA  153 

appearances — that   Clare   feels   strongly   for  your 
son. 

Mes.  O'Farrel. 
Fudge  ! 

Dean. 

Now,  my  dear  Eileen,  pray  don't  fall  back  on 
contradiction.  What  we  have  both  got  to  do  is 
to  bring  these  young  people  together 

Mrs.  OTarrel. 

Hush  !  D'you  hear?  (She  goes  quickly  to  the 
back  and  looks  out.  A  pause.)  All  four  of 
them  !  Of  course,  they  went  up  to  the  house  to 
look  for  us.    .   .    .  What  shall  we  do? 

Dean. 

Ah  !  (Goes  to  the  railing  at  the  back.)  Allow 
me.   .    .    .    (Calls.)     Clare.    .   .    . 

Clare. 

(Beneath.)     Hullo  !   .   .    . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

(Excitedly.)  But  are  you  going  to  let  them 
know -  ■ 

Dean. 

I  beg  you,  Eileen,  to  sit  down  and  control  your- 
self. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Well,  but  I  should  like  to  know 


Dean. 

Will    you    kindly    entrust    the    conduct    of   the 


154  LADY   PATRICIA 

situation  entirely  to  me.  Take  your  cue  from 
me,  and  above  all,  be  tactful  and  dignified.  (He 
sits  down  with  unction.) 

Mes.  O'Farrel. 

I  really  believe  you  are  thoroughly  enjoying 
yourself. 

Dean. 

Pray  don't  be  flippant,  Eileen.  This  is  a  very 
serious  matter. 

(He  crosses  his  legs  and  fixes  his  eyeglass  us 
Clare  enters  up  the  central  ladder 
followed  by  Lady  Patricia,  Bill,  and 
Michael.) 

Clare. 

We  thought  you  had  gone  back  to  the  house. 

Dean. 

Indeed. 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  really  believe  they  went  to  depreciate  the 
guelder-roses  as  well  1 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

.We  did  nothing  of  the  sort,  Patricia,  and  let 

Dean. 

Kindly  allow  me,  Mrs.  O'Farrel.  .  .  .  No, 
Lady  Patricia,  we  have  not  been  to  examine  the 
guelder-roses.     We  have  been  all  the  time  here. 

Lady  Patricia,  Bill,  Michael,  Clare. 
Here  !   .   .    . 


LADY  PATRICIA  155 

Dean 

■We  have  been  all  the  time — here, 

Michael. 

But — but  I  returned  a  short  while  ago,  and  you 
were  certainly  not  here  then. 

Dean, 

Excuse  me,  sir — we  were. 

Claee. 

But  we  never  saw  you.   .    .   . 

Dean. 

That  I   can   quite   believe.     We,   however,   saw 
you  and  Mr.  Cosway  quite  distinctly. 

Mrs.  OTarrel. 

Most  distinctly  !     And  I 

Dean. 

Allow  me,  Mrs.  O'Farrel.    .    .    . 

Bill. 

But,  I  say 

Dean. 

Sir? 

Bill. 

You  can't  have  been  here  a  minute  or  two  ago 
when  Patri Cousin  Patricia  and  I 

Dean. 

Pardon  me,  sir — we  were. 

Bill. 

But,   I  say,  you  must  have  hidden  yourselves 
somewhere,  because 


156  LADY  PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Your  mother  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  summer- 
house. 

Bill,  Clare. 
Oh  .  .  .    I 

Lady  Patricia. 

Oh!  ...  0 — oh!  .  .  .  {She  gropes  for  a  chair, 
she  sits  down  heavily .) 

Michael. 

What — what  is  the  matter,  dear? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Nothing.    .    .    .   I— I  am  a  little  faint 

Michael. 

The — the  night  is  certainly  oppressive.   .    .   . 

Lady  Patricia. 

I — I'm  all  right  now.   .    .    . 
{A  pause.    The  nightingale  starts  shiging.) 

Dean. 

(To  Clare.)  I  think  it  is  high  time  to  go. 
.  .  .  Did  you  see  whether  the  carriage  had 
arrived  ? 

Clare. 

Yes,  it's  there. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Come,  Bill,  we  must  be  getting  home. 


LADY   PATRICIA  157 

Dean. 

(Solemnly.)     I  have  several  weighty  additions 

to  make  to  my  sermon  to  -morrow — additions  which 

certain   events   to-night   have   suggested.      I   trust 

you    will    all    be    at    the    Cathedral    for    morning 

service.     (An  awkward  silence.     The  Dean  waves 

his    hand    towards    the    central  ladder.)      Mrs. 

O'Farrel.    .    .     .    (MRS.     O'Farrel     passes    and 

descends.)     Clare.   .   .   .    (Clare  passes  him  and 

descends.     He  says  with  impressive  unconcern:) 

The  nightingale  sings  most  divinely  to-night ! 

(He   goes   out,    Bill    following   him    with    a 

hang -dog  air.    Baldwin  enters  on  the  left 

just  as  Lady  Patricia  and  Michael  move 

to  the  central  ladder.) 

Baldwin. 

If  you  please,  sir.    .    .    . 

Michael. 

What  is  it,  Baldwin  ?     What  is  it  ? 

Baldwin. 

If   you    please,    sir,    will    you    be    using    them 
lanterns  agin  to-night? 

Michael. 

No. 
Baldwin. 

Then  I  'ad  better  take  'em  down,  sir? 

Michael. 

Yes,  take  them  down.     (To  Lady  Patricia.) 
Come,  dear. 

(Baldwin    starts    fiddling    about    with    the 
strings  of  the  lanterns.) 


158  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Wearily.)    Yes,  darling. 

Baldwin. 

(Lowering  the  first  lamp.)    Whoa  !   .   .    . 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Speaking  in  a  passionate  whisper.)  Will  you 
love  me,  Michael,  always — always — and  no  matter 
what  may  happen  ? 

Michael. 

(Taking  her  hands.)  I?  How  can  you  ask? 
But  you — could  you  still  love  me  if — if 

Lady  Patricia. 
If ? 

Michael. 

If  I  were  unworthy? 

Lady  Patricia. 
You! 

(They  descend  the  central  ladder.) 

Baldwin. 

(Lowering  the  second  lantern.)  Whoa  !  .  .  . 
(He  blows  out  the  candle  and  folds  the  lamp  up. 
Then  he  goes  leisurely  for  the  next  lantern  and 
lowers  it.)  Whoa  !  .  .  .  (He  blows  it  out,  folds 
it  up  and  goes  for  the  next  lantern  and  the  curtain 
descends  while  he  is  lowering  it.  When  it  rises 
again,  he  says :)    Whoa!   .   .   .    (And  folds  it  up .) 

(End  of  the  Second  Act.) 


THE  THIRD  ACT 


THE    THIRD    ACT 

Scene  : — The  Deanery  garden.  At  the  hack  is  a 
wing  of  the  Deanery,  red-bricked,  Norman- 
arched,  with  7nullioned  windows  and  a  heavy 
door  opening  on  to  the  lawn.  On  the  right, 
three-quarters  across  the  background,  the  house 
ends,  and  an  old  niachicholated  wall  begins, 
with  a  great  brass -studded  double  gateway  in 
the  middle  of  it,  in  the  left  side  of  which  is  a 
wicket  with  grating.  The  door  opens  on  the 
Deanery  Close  and  a  view  of  the  Cathedral 
in  the  distance.  The  garden  is  all  lawn,  flower- 
bed, and  old  trees.  From  the  great  door,  and 
running  diagonally  across  the  stage  and  out  to 
the  left  in  front,  is  a  stone-flagged  path. 
Another  path  from  the  house-door  joins  it 
about  the  centre  of  the  stage.  On  the  lawn 
in  the  foreground  stands  a  table  spread  for 
breakfast,  with  two  chairs  beside  it.  It  is 
a  brilliant  Sunday  morning  in  June. 

(When  the  curtain  rises,  John,  the  Dean's 
butler  and  verger  of  the  Cathedral,  and 
Robert,  the  page,  are  putting  finishing 
touches  to  the  breakfast -table.  After  a 
moment  the  Dean  enters  and  goes  to  the 
table.) 

11  nfl 


162  LADY  PATRICIA 

Dean. 

What  a  morning  !  Fragrant  !  Exquisite  !  Ha  ! 
{He  sniffs  the  air  appreciatively,  fixes  his  eye- 
glass and  beams  around  him.)  A  happy  Whitsun, 
John. 

John. 

Thank  you,  sir.     Same  to  you,  sir. 

Dean. 

Eh  ?   ...  Oh,  certainly  ! 

John. 

Yes,  sir.  It's  mornings  like  this,  sir,  that  one 
feels  a  inclination  to  sing  the  tedium. 

Dean. 

To  sing  the — er ? 

John. 

The  tedium,  sir. 

Dean. 

The  Te  Deum!  Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure  !  To  sing 
the  Te  Deum.  Most  appropriate  !  (Looks  at  his 
watch.)    A  quarter  to  ten . 

John. 

Yes,  sir.  It's  highly  significant  to  see  so  many 
people  at  early  service  this  morning,  sir.  Highly 
significant.  (Robert  goes  out.) 

Dean. 

Ah,  yes  !    ...   Is  Miss  Clare  in  the  garden  ? 


LADY  PATRICIA  163 

John. 

I  believe  she  is,  sir. 

Dean. 

Well,  she'll  be  here  in  a  minute.  I  think,  as  it's 
rather  late,  I  had  better  begin  at  once.  Is  this 
all  you're  giving  me  to-day,  John? 

John. 

Oh,  no,  sir.  There's  an  omelette  with  asparagus- 
tops  to  come. 

Dean. 

Good.  Very  good  !  In  the  meantime  these 
delicious  fruits.  (Sits  at  the  table.) 

John. 

Yes,  sir.  If  you  please,  sir,  Mr.  Cosway's  gar- 
dener was  here  this  morning  before  you  came  back 
from  church.  As  far  as  I  could  gather  he  had 
some  message  from  her  ladyship  which  he  refused 
to  leave.  I  gathered  he  had  instructions  to  give 
it  to  you  direct,  sir. 

Dean. 

Oh   .    .    .   ah   .    .    .  h'm.    .    .    .  Is  he  here  now? 

John. 

No,  sir  ;  I  told  him  to  come  back  at  ten  o'clock. 
He's  gone  to  the  cemetery  to  visit  the  grave  of  his 
first  wife. 

Dean. 

Bring  him  here  when  he  comes. 


164  LADY  PATRICIA 

John. 

Very  good,  sir. 

(John  goes  into  the  house.  The  Dean  daintily 
shins  a  peach,  humming  gently,  "  Every 
morn  I  bring  thee  violets.''  After  la 
moment  Clare  enters  from  the  left,  a 
bunch  of  pink  and  white  may  in  her  hand. 
She  is  obviously  in  a  shocking  temper.) 

Clare. 

Good  morning,  father. 

Dean. 

Good  morning,  Clare.     May  !    Is  it  for  me? 

Clare. 

You  can  have  it  if  you  like. 

(She  lays  it  beside  his  plate  and  sits  down.) 

Dean. 

Thank  you,  my  dear.  Fragrant,  delicately- 
tinted,  fresh  and  dewy  as  young  girls.  (He  regards 
her  critically.)  But  you  don't  look  quite  yourself, 
my  child. 

Clare. 
I? 

Dean. 

A  little  tired .    Perhaps  you  slept  hadly  ? 

Clare. 

I'm  as  fit  as  a  fiddle,  and  I  slept  like  a  log. 


LADY  PATRICIA  165 

Dean. 

These  peaches  are  delicious.     Try  one. 

Clare. 

Aren't  there  any  cherries  yet? 

Dean. 

I'm  afraid  not.  *'  Fruits  in  due  season,"  3^ou 
know,  my  dear  I 

Clare. 

What  about  your  peaches? 

Dean. 

That's  different,  quite  different.  An  early  peach 
cannot  be  too  early.     They  live  in  glass  houses 

Clare. 

(Significantly.)  And  don't  throw  their  stones. 
.    .   .   I'll  have  a  cup  of  tea. 

Dean. 

There's  an  omelette  with  asparagus-tops  on  the 
way. 

Clare. 

I'm  not  hungry. 

Dean. 

Oh,  that's  a  pity  !  I  suppose  it's  this  excep- 
tionally early  summer. 

Clare. 

Yes.  I  was  unbearably  hot  all  night.  And  so 
thirsty  that  I  drank  nearly  all  the  water  in  my 
jug. 


166  LADY  PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Dear  me  !     Wasn't  there  any  in  the  carafe? 

Clare. 

I  drank  that  as  well. 

Dean. 

Really  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  for  a  log  you  were 
somewhat  restive  last  night. 

Clare. 
A  log? 

Dean. 

I  thought  you  slept  like  a  log 

Clare. 

I  scarcely  slept  a  wink. 

Dean. 

Well,  well,  my  dear,  so  long  as  you  feel — to 
use  your  expression — as  lit  as  a  fiddle,  it 

Clare. 

I  feel  rotten. 

(John  enters  with  the  omelette,  Robert  with 
plates.) 
Dean. 

I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  go  to  bed  until  very  late  my- 
self. Those  little  additions  to  my  sermon  took  me 
longer  than  I  had  anticipated.  (JOHN  and  ROBERT 
go  out,  having  placed  the  dish  before  the  Dean.) 
This  looks  most  inviting.  And  as  there  doesn't 
seem   to   be   much  of  it,   I'm   not,   on   the   whole, 


LADY   PATRICIA  167 

sorry  that  you've  lost  your  appetite  this  morning  ! 
It's  an  ill  wind  that 

Clare. 

May  I  have  some,  please? 

Dean. 

Changeable  young  person  ! 

Clare. 

Well,  of  course,  if  you  grudge  me  a  little  piece 
of  your  omelette 

Dean. 

Not  at  all,  my  dear  !     Not  at  all  ! 

(Ee  offers  her  a  liberal  helping.) 
Clare. 

You  needn't  give  me  three-quarters  of  it. 

Dean. 

Very  well.  You  had  better  take  the  other  piece, 
then. 

Clare. 

Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  ! 

{Impatiently  she  takes  the  larger  helping.) 
Dean. 

(Genially.)  I  don't  mind  confessing  that  I'm 
very  hungry,  so  unless  you  really  want  it,  my 
dear 

Clare. 

Oh,  for  goodness'   sake,  father,  take  the  whole 


168  LADY  PATRICIA 

lot  !     I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  deprive  you  of  your 
food! 

Dean. 

What  a  peppery  young  lady  it  is  !  I  was  only 
joking. 

Clare. 

I  may  be  sadly  lacking  in  humour,  but  jokes 
about  omelettes  and  the  condition  of  one's  stomach 
never  much  appealed  to  me. 

Dean. 

Really,  my  dear  child,  I  should  much  prefer 
your  not  using  that  word. 

Clare. 
Stomach  ? 

Dean. 

Yes. 

Clare. 

Oh  !  I  do  hope  you're  not  going  to  suggest 
I  should  say   "  Little  Mary  "  ! 

Dean. 

(Puzzled.)  Little  Mary?  I — er — don't  quite 
see  the  connection.  ...  Is  there  any  reason  for 
alluding  to  that — er — portion  of  the  anatomy? 

Clare. 

I  was  under  the  impression  that  you  made  the 
first  allusion  to  it. 


LADY  PATRICIA  169 

Dean. 

My  dear,  I  merely  mentioned  the  fact  that  I 
was  hungry. 

Clare. 

Well,  you're  not  hungry  with  your  foot,  are 
you? 

Dean. 

Don't  you  think  this  bickering  rather  silly  and 
childish  ? 

Clare . 
Very . 

Dean. 

{After  a  pause,  and  with  a  change  of  voice  hut 
unabated  cheerfulness,)  Unclouded  sunshine  and 
a  sense  of  deep  peace  and  repose  !  My  ideal  of 
an  English  Sunday  !  John  told  me  just  now  that 
he  feels  inclined  to  sing  the  Te  Deum  on  mornings 
like  this. 

Clare. 

Why  don't  you  come  to  the  point,  father? 

Dean. 

The   point?   .    .   . 

Clare. 
Yes. 

Dean. 

I  don't  quite  understand. 


170  LADY   PATRICIA 

Clare. 

I  think  you  owe  me  some  explanation  of  your 
extraordinary   action   last  night. 

Dean. 

My  extraordinary   action  !    .    .    . 

Clare. 

Yes — ^in  deliberately  hiding  yourself  in  the 
summer-house  to  overhear  a  private  conversation. 

Dean. 

You  amaze  me,  Clare  !  Instead  of  being  grate- 
ful for  my  silence  on  the  events  of  yesterday,  you 
turn  on  me  as  though  you  had  a  grievance  !  My 
action  was  amply  justified  by  the  circumstances. 

Clare. 

I  don't  see  how  eavesdropping  can  ever  be  justi- 
fied. And  now  you're  bent  on  giving  us  "  beans  " 
from  the  pulpit.  I'm  awfully  sorry  to  have  to 
say  it,  father,  but  really  it's  rotten  bad 
form.    .    .    . 

Dean. 

We  won't  discuss  the  matter  any  further.  Be- 
lieve me,  I  am  the  best  judge  of  my  actions. 

Clare. 

And  I  of  mine. 

Dean. 

You  refer  to  the  unhappy  discoveries  Mrs. 
O'Farrel  and  I  made  last  night? 


LADY  PATRICIA  171 

Claee. 
I  do. 

Dean. 

Certainly,  if  you're  heartily  ashamed  of  your- 
self, you're  a  competent  judge  of  your  actions. 

Clake. 

I'm  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  myself. 

Dean. 

Then,  my  dear  child 

Clare. 

And  why  should  I  be?  I've  done  nothing 
wrong. 

Dean. 

You  have  done  very  wrong  indeed.  But  I  don't 
wish  to  exaggerate.  Of  course,  I  know  this  has 
been  nothing  more  than  a  foolish  flirtation.  Repre- 
hensible— most  reprehensible.  A  grave  error,  but 
scarcely  a  sin.  We  will  say  no  more  about  ^t. 
.  .  .  One  thing,  however,  I  am  bound  to  insist 
upon  after  what  came  to  my  knowledge  last  night. 
You  must  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  that  young 
man. 

Clare. 

What  young  man?  Michael's  forty,  if  he's  a 
day. 

Dean. 

I  was  not  speaking  of  Mr.  Cosway.     Honestly, 


172  LADY  PATRICIA 

your   future   relations   with   him   don't   cause  me 
acute  anxiety.     I  was  alluding  to  young  0'i]arrel. 

Clare. 

(Sitting  up.)     Bill ! 

Dean. 

I  think,  my  dear,  we  will  leave  the  use  of  his 
Christian  name  to  the  unhappy  lady — or  ladies — 
with  whom  he  is  intimate.  Certain  facts  have 
come  to  my  knowledge.  He  is  not  a  fit  companion 
for  a  young  girl.  Your  acquaintance  with  him 
must  cease  from  to-day. 

Clare. 

Oh  !   .    .   .  And  may  I  ask  what  he  has  done  ? 

Dean. 

It  is  quite  superfluous  to  go  into — er — un- 
savoury details. 

Clare. 

You  seriously  expect  me  to  cut  him  because 
he  doesn't  quite  meet  with  your  approval  ? 

Dean. 

I  expect  you  to  obey  me  implicitly. 

Clare. 

(Rising.)  I  had  better  tell  you  at  once,  father, 
that  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind. 

(The  gateway  bell  rings.) 


LADY  PATRICIA  173 

Dean. 

Clare  !  (The  DEAN  looT^s  at  the  gateway  and 
lowers  his  voice.)     You  forget  yourself! 

Clare. 

His  crime  hasn't  by  chance  anything  to  do  with 
Patricia  ? 

Dean. 

H'm — well,  since  you  appear  to  know  something 
about  this,  it  would  be — er — affectation  on  my  part 
to  deny  it.  His  conduct  has  been  shameful,  out- 
rageous, and  ungentlemanly. 

Clare. 

His  conduct  has  been  splendid.  That  detestable 
creature  got  hold  of  him  somehow,  and  he  behaved 
perfectly  from  start  to  finish.  Of  course  you  side 
with  her  because  you  think  her  pretty.     But 

Dean. 

We  won't  discuss  the  matter  any  further,  my 
child.  You  are  very  young  and  headstrong  and 
inexperienced,  and  must  learn  to  repose  implicit 
faith  in  your  father's  judgment.  You  are  not  to 
see  this  young  man  again . 

Clare. 

I'm  sorry,  father,  but  I  refuse  to  obey  you. 

Dean. 

Clare  ! 

Clare. 

It's  grossly  unjust— it's  mean  and  horrid.      I 


174  LADY   PATRICIA 

won't  do  such  a  caddish  thing  even  for  you.     I 
am  going  to  see  him  now. 

(John  enters  and  goes  to  the  gateway.) 

Dean. 

Clare,  remember  I  have  forbidden  it. 

Clare. 

{Beside  herself.)  I  don't  care  !  I'm  going  to 
him  now  !  I  won't  go  to  church  to  be  preached  at. 
I'm  going  to  him.  You  can  turn  me  out  of  your 
house,  if  you  like,  father.  But  I  won't  obey  you. 
I  won't.  {She  storms  into  the  house.) 

Dean. 

Clare,  how  dare  you  !  {Directly  she  has  dis- 
appeared, he  laughs  heartily.)  Oh  !  Most  satis- 
factory . 

{He  changes  plates  and  commences  on  Clare's 
untouched  omelette.    John,  who  has  looked 
through  the  grating  and  recognised  Bald- 
win outside,  goes  to  the  Dean.) 
John. 

Mr.  Cosway's  gardener  has  just  called  again, 
sir. 

Dean. 

Very  well.     Bring  him  round. 

John. 
Yes,  sir. 

{He  goes  to  the  gateway  and  opens  the  wicket. 
The  Dean  continues  eating  his  breakfast. 


LADY   PATRICIA  175 

Baldwin  enters  in  Sunday  broadcloth  and 
a  broad -brimmed,  black,  soft  felt  hat.     He 
carries  an   abnormally    large  prayer-book 
and  hymn-book.) 
John. 

Mr.  Baldwin,  sir.  (JOHN  goes  out.) 

Dean. 

Ah.    .    .    .  Good  morning,  Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 
Mornin',  sir. 

Dean. 

You  have  a  message  for  me  from  her  ladyship  ? 

Baldwin. 

Yessir. 
(He  places  his  two  books  on  the  ground,  plunges 
into  his  right-hand  breast-pocket  and  pro- 
duces a  letter.) 
I  would  'a  lef  this  at  the  door,  sir,  without  trouhlin* 
you,  but   'er  ladyship  when  she  give  it  me  said 
most  particular  as  I  was  to  'and  it  to  you  personal, 
sir. 

Dean. 

Quite  so.     Quite  so. 

(Opens  the  envelope  and  reads.) 
Baldwin. 

(After  fumbling  in  the  left-hand  breast-pocket, 
produces  a  second  letter.)  And  'ere's  the  other 
letter,  sir. 


176  LADY   PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Eh,  what?     Another? 

Baldwin. 

Yessir.  As  I  was  leavin'  'ome,  the  master  come 
up  and  give  it  me,  and  said  most  particular  as  I 
was  to  'and  it  to  you  personal. 

Dean. 

Oh.  .  .  .  {Takes  the  letter  and  reads  it 
through.)  Er — thank  you.  ...  I  understand 
you've  been  to  visit  the  grave  of  the  late  Mrs. 
Baldwin  ? 

Baldwin. 

I  'ave  that,  sir.  She  was  a  good  wife  to  me, 
sir,  though  she  did  give  me  ondly  two.  .  .  .  I've 
'ad  thirteen,  sir,  an'  two  of  'em  by  'er. 

Dean. 

Thirteen  !     Excellent  !     Excellent ! 

Baldwin. 

Yessir.  Thirteen's  an  onlucky  number,  I've 
'eard  tell,  but  I  ain't  suspicious. 

Dean. 

{Laughing  gently.)  And  how  many  of  the 
thirteen  are  girls,  Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

Nine  of  'em,  sir — leastways,  I  think  as  'ow  nine 
of  'em  is  female.  {He  tots  them  off  on  his  fingers.) 
H'Annie,  and  H'Effel,  'Enrietta,  Louisa,  Maggie, 


LADY  PATRICIA  177 

Victoria    .    .    .    H' Alice.    .    .    .    H'Edith.    .    .    . 
an' — an'  Milly.     Yessir— nine.     The  rest  is  boys. 

Dean. 

Nine  !  Dear  me  !  What  a  terrible  responsi- 
bility. Their  upbringing  must  have  been  very 
trying.     Nine  ! 

Baldwin. 

Yessir.  They  do  give  a  bit  more  worry  than 
boys.  But  Mrs.  Baldwin's  a  rare  'and  at  tacklin' 
'er  own  sects. 

Dean. 

Oh,  really?  And  what  measures  did  she  take 
when  they  were  fractious  and  disobedient? 

Baldwin. 

She  'anded  'em  over  to  me,  sir. 

Dean. 

And  what  did  you  do  ? 

Baldwin. 

I  thrashed  'em. 

Dean. 

Did  you  really  !  That  never  dawned  on  me  as  a 
practical  measure.  ...  I  wonder — I  wonder 
whether  all  girls  would  derive  benefit  from — er — 
occasional  chastisement. 

Baldwin. 

You  take  my  word  for  it,  sir.  All  my  girls  'ave 
gorne  straight  and  married  respec'able. 

12 


178  LADY   PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Gone  straight  and  married  respectably  !  All 
nine  of  them  !  .  .  .  And  do  you  put  down  this 
happy  result  to  your  special  treatment? 

Baldwin. 
Yessir. 

Dean. 

Most  interesting  !  Most  interesting  !  I  must 
think  it  over — I  must  indeed.    .    .    . 

(John  enters.) 
John. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel  has  called,  sir. 

Dean. 

Oh.    .    .    .  Ask  her  out  here,  John. 

John. 

Very  good,  sir.  (He  goes  out.) 

(The  Dean  takes  up  the  letters  and  glances 
through  them.    A  pause.     He  looks  up  and 
sees  Baldwin  standing  patiently  watching 
him.) 
Dean. 

Ah,   Baldwin— yes.    .    .    .   What  was   I  saying? 

Baldwin. 

You  said  as  you'd  think  it  over,  sir. 

Dean. 

Oh,  to  be  sure  !  Physical  chastisement  for  girls. 
Quite  so. 

(Enter  John  from  the  house  followed  by  MRS. 
O'Farrel.) 


LADY   PATRICIA  179 

John. 

Mrs.   O'Farrel.  {Re  goes  out.) 

Dean. 

{Rising  with  outstretched  h'ands.)  My  dear 
Eileen  !     This  is  a  most  unexpected  pleasure  ! 

Mes.  O'Farrel. 

Nonsense.     You  guessed  I  should  turn  up. 

Dean. 

iWell,  I  may  have  hoped  it. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Good  morning,  Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

Mornin',  ma'am. 

Dean. 

Baldwin  has  been  giving  me  sage  advice  on  the 
up -bringing  of  girls. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
You  need  it. 

Dean. 

He's  a  great  advocate  of — er — corporal  punish- 
ment. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Oh  !  .  .  .  That's  all  very  well  when  they're 
in  short  frocks,  Baldwin.  But  afterwards,  I  don't 
exactly  see  how 

Dean. 

Quite  so.   .    .   . 


180  LADY  PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

I  thrashed  Milly  when  she  was  turned  twenty, 
mum. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Upon  my  word  !  What  on  earth  had  the  girl 
done  ? 

Baldwin. 

Mrs.  Baldwin  found  'er  sittin  'on  Constable 
'Iggins'  knee — 'e  was  a  married  man,  as  you  may 
remember,  sir,  and  'e 

(Mrs.  O'Farrel  bursts  out  laughing.) 

Dean. 

(Hastily.)  Yes,  yes,  yes,  Baldwin.  .  .  . 
Neither  of  these  notes  requires  an  answer,  thank 
you.     Good  morning. 

Baldwin. 

Mornin',  sir.     Mornin*,  ma'am. 

(He  goes  out  slowly,  inadvertently  leaving  his 
books  on  the  ground.  Mrs.  O'Farrel  is 
still  amused.) 

Dean. 
Well? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
Well?  .  .   . 

Dean. 

I  said  it  first. 


LADY   PATRICIA  181 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

And  I'm  a  woman. 

Dean. 

True.  To  begin  with  I've  just  received  these 
two  notes.     (Hands  her  the  letters.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

(Opening  a  letter.)  From  Patricia  !  .  .  .  Now 
I  really  wonder  whether  this  terribly  agitated 
handwriting  is   put  on. 

Dean. 

Be  generous,  Eileen  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

What  on  earth  does  the  woman  mean  by  scrawl- 
ing "  Sunrise  "  on  the  top  of  the  page? 

Dean. 

Presumably  that  was  when  she  wrote  the  letter. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Oh,  I  see  !  She  wants  you  to  believe  she  paced 
her  room  in  wakeful  agony  all  night.  (Reads.) 
'*  Sunrise.  I  have  need  of  confession.  I  will  call 
at  the  Deanery  before  morning  service — PATRICIA 
COSWAY."  Confession  !  Evidently  she  means  to 
enjoy  herself  !  .  .  .  (Opens  the  other  note  and 
reads.)  "  Dear  Dean,— I  am  calling  on  you  before 
morning  service  to-day.  I  trust,  in  spite  of  all 
that  has  happened,  you  will  not  refuse  to  receive 
me— Michael  Cosway."  Very  interesting.  iWhat 
do  you  intend  to  do? 


182  LADY  PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Honestly,  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  yet. 

Mes.  O'Farrel. 

I  protest  against  your  giving  Patricia  and  your- 
self the  luxury  of  private  confession.  She  owes 
me  her  precious  confession,  not  you.  Have  her  out 
here,  and  we'll  trounce  her  together. 

Dean. 

Poor  woman  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Fiddle  -de  -dee  !  She's  having  the  time  of  her 
life.  I  wonder  whether  they've  confessed  to  each 
other . 

Dean. 

I  shouldn't  think  so — but  I  mean  that  they 
shall . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

So  do  I.  .  .  .  Well,  Dean,  I've  had  it  out  with 
my  son. 

Dean  . 
Ah.  .   .   . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Driving  home  last  night  I  talked  about  the 
likelihood  of  a  thunderstorm,  Creme  de  Menthe  and 
lawn -tennis,  and  made  him  thoroughly  uncomfort- 
able. 


LADY  PATRICIA  183 

Dean. 

Then  you  said  nothing  about 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Not  a  word.  And  we  both  went  to  bed.  He 
came  down  to  breakfast  in  a  shocking  temper.  I 
cheerfully  exhausted  two  tedious  subjects :  the 
House  of  Lords  and  domestic  servants.  Suddenly 
he  lost  his  manners — cut  me  short — and  plunged 
into  the  sad  story  of  Patricia  and  himself.  .  .  . 
Now,  I'd  had  time  to  think  the  matter  over  !  I 
treated  the  whole  thing  as  a  youthful  peccadillo 
and  mildly  suggested  he  had  better  put  an  end 
to  it.  The  poor  dear  boy  was  completely  floored. 
I'm  sure  he'd  prepared  himself  against  a  regular 
tornado.  He  simply  sat  there  and  stared  at  me. 
.  .  .  Then  abruptly  I  turned  the  conversation  on 
to  your  daughter. 

Dean. 

Eh? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

I  described  her  conduct  as  scandalous,  herself  as 
a  hussy,  and  wound  up  with  a  burst  of  gratitude 
that  he'd  been   Patricia's  victim  instead  of  hers. 

Dean. 

Most  remarkable  !  And  what  did  the  young 
man  say? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

He  dazzled  me  with  an  amazing  flare-up.  Ex- 
hausted his  vocabulary  on  my  injustice  and  Clare's 


184  LADY   PATRICIA 

perfections,  and  stormed  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
me  with  tingling  ears. 

Dean. 

And  now? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Presumably  he's  gone  in  search  of  this  maligned 
young  woman .  My  blessings  attend  on  him  !  .  .  . 
Well,  Dean,  I'm  a  brilliant  and  original  tactician, 
what? 

Dean. 

Brilliant,   certainly — original,  no  ! 

Mrs.  0 'Parrel. 

No? 

Dean. 

Not  ten  minutes  ago  I  adopted  precisely  the 
same  tactics  with  Clare  and  achieved  precisely 
the  same  result.  She's  searching  for  your  worth- 
less son  at  present. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Upon  my  word,  I  should  never  have  credited 
you  with  so  much  sense  ! 

Dean. 

My  dear  Eileen,  I  put  down  the  tragedy  of  so 
many   women's   lives 

{Enter  John.) 
John. 

{Announcing.)     Lady  Patricia  Cosway. 
{Enter  Lady  Patricia.     She  is  dressed  in 
black  from  head  to  foot.     John  goes  ovyt.) 


LADY   PATRICIA  185 

Dean. 

(Rising.)     Lady  Patricia,  this  is  indeed  an 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

No,  Dean  ;  it's  neither  unexpected  nor  a 
pleasure. 

Dean. 

I  must  really  beg  of  you,  Eileen  !  (To 
Patricia.)     Won't  you  sit  down? 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Who  has  been  standing  at  the  hack  in  an 
attitude  of  majestic  humility.  She  speaks  with 
pleading  dignity.)  Do  you  refuse  me  your 
hand?   ... 

Dean. 

(At  her  side,  and  taking  her  bla^k-gloved  hand 
in  both  of  his.)    My  dear  lady  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

Ah.  .  .  .  You  were  always  large-minded  and 
gentle   and   tolerant.    .   .    .  Aunt   Eileen.    .   .    . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
Well? 

Lady  Patricia. 

They  told  me  you  were  here,  so  I  came  out. 
I  am  determined  to  speak  before  you  both.  It 
was  not  what  I  had  meant  to  do.  I  had  hoped 
to  lay  bare  my  secret  soul  in  secret  to  the  Dean. 
Deliberately  I  have  chosen  the  fiercer  ordeal.     For 


186  LADY   PATRICIA 

I  expect  and  deserve  no  sympathy  from  you,  no 
mercy,  no  forgiveness,  no  understanding.    .   .    . 

Mrs.  O'Fareel. 

I  think  I  understand  you  well  enough,  Patricia. 

Lady  Patricia. 

But  do  you?  Oh,  do  you?  Can  any  one  so 
sane  and  practical  understand  this  living  paradox? 
Can  prose  ever  understand  poetry?  I  am  the 
refined  essence  of  spirit  and  sense.  I  am  a  thing 
of  fire  and  dew.  I  have  in  me  the  making  of  a 
great  saint  and  a  great  courtesan.    .   .    . 

Dean. 

(Hurriedly.)  Yes,  yes  ;  we  quite  under- 
stand.   .   .    . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
Go  ahead,  Patricia. 

Lady  Patricia. 

If  you  really  understand,  my  task  will  be  so 
much  the  easier  !  For  understanding  is  the  be- 
ginning of  sympathy.  And  sympathy  ends  in 
forgiveness.  .  .  .  Dean,  Aunt  Eileen — will  you  be 
patient  and  listen  to  me  for  a  moment? 

Dean. 

Of  course  we  will.     But  won't  you  sit  down? 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  should  prefer  to  stand. 


LADY   PATRICIA  187 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

It's  more  effective,  Dean. 

Lady  Patricia. 

What  you  overheard  yesterday  gave  you  only 
a  crude  outline  of  my  tragedy  and  sin.  All  the 
colour,  all  the  light  and  shadow  were  missing  ; 
and  without  these  you  are  bound  to  misjudge 
me.  .  .  .  Ah  !  don't  believe  for  a  moment  I  am 
seeking  to  justify  myself  !  No  !  No  !  There  can 
be  no  real  justification  for  my  sin.  .  .  .  But  I  do 
want  your  understanding — I  do  want  your  pity — 
I  do  want  your  pardon.  And  from  you,  Dean,  I 
have  come  for  punishment — for  penance 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Hand  her  over  to  Baldwin. 

Lady  Patricia. 
Baldwin  ? 

Dean. 

Eileen  !     I  beg  of  you  I 

Lady  Patricia. 

On  the  surface  my  marriage  has  been  perfect. 
Michael  is  the  husband  of  old  romance,  steel-true, 
chivalrous,  and  devoted — oh  !  as  no  man  was  ever 
devoted  to  a  woman  before  !  (MRS.  O'Farrel 
and  the  Dean  exchange  significant  glances.)  But 
he  just  lacked  what  the  depths  of  my  complex 
nature  cried  out  for — passion,  simplicity,  primeval 
energy.     These  he  hadn't  in  him  to  give,  and  I 


188  LADY   PATRICIA 

wanted  them,  not  knowing  at  first  what  I  wanted. 
...  But  when  Bill  came  into  my  life — I  knew — 
I  knew  .  .  .  and  we  rushed  together,  drawn  by 
the  mystic  gravitation  of  alien  soul  for  soul. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

A  moment,  Patricia.  I  understand  that  my  son 
has  ''  primeval  energy."  I've  never  noticed  it 
myself.     What  are  its  manifestations? 

Dean. 

Don't  you  think  we  can  leave  that  to — er — the 
imagination  ? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Oh  ...  by  all  means  !  Then  what  do  you 
mean  by  "rushing  together"? 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  use  the  expression  metaphorically  .  .  . 
spiritually.  (With  sudden  drama.)  Dean — Aunt 
Eileen — I  swear  to  you  by  all  that  is  beautiful 
and  sacred  that  our  love  has  been  pure.  You 
believe  me  ?     Ah,  say  you  believe  me  ! 

Dean. 

Why,  of  course  we  do  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

If  you  swore  to  the  contrary,  I  should  call  you 
a  liar  !  You've  neither  the  strength  nor  the 
courage  to  do  more  than  play  with  sin. 


LADY  PATRICIA  189 

Lady  Patricia. 

I?  I  !  Oh,  how  little  you  know  me  !  Had  you 
looked  into  my  heart  when  first  this  temptation 
stole  upon  me  you  would  have  never  said  any- 
thing so  foolish.  .  .  .  Shall  I  ever  forget  those 
long  nights  of  battle  when  my  skin  was  dry  and 
fevered — my  pillow  wet  with  tears?  I  lived  with 
clenched  hands  and  bitten  lip,  and  fixed  my 
thoughts  steadfastly  on  high  and  holy  things. 
Yes,  I  fought  the  good  fight  well — and  if  I  was 
half  defeated  ...  I  am  but  human.  ...  At 
last  it  came — the  day  came  when  I  lost  the  battle. 
.  .  .  Spring  was  in  the  air,  sweet  perfumes  of 
budding  and  burgeoning  things  .  .  .  above  my  head 
a  blackbird  fluted  ...  I  had  an  early  snowdrop 
in  my  hand.  He  looked  at  me  ;  I  felt  his  eyes 
devouring  my  face.  Slowly  I  lifted  mine — our 
eyes  met — and  no  force  on  earth  could  have  torn 
them  apart ;    and  the  world  reeled  and  sang  about 

us Oh,    and    that    bluer    blue,    that    greener 

green!  ... 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

That  bluer  blue— that ? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Stephen  Phillips.  .  .  .  Ah,  that  moment !  I 
was  mad — I  was  drunk  with  love  and  spring  ! 

Dean  Well  ? 

AND  (Excitedly  interested . ) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel.  Yes? 


190  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Patricia. 

Fate  intervened  and  saved  us. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel  and  Dean. 

(Unfeignedly  disappointed.)     Fate? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Baldwin  returned  with  the  water. 

Dean  and  Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
The  water? 

Lady  Patricia. 
For  the  snowdrop. 

(The  Dean  coughs.  Mrs.  O'Farrel  solemnly 
scrutinises  Patricia  through  her  lorg- 
nette.) 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Doesn't  it  occur  to  you  that  was  rather  funny? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Funny?  No,  oh  no!  I  see  a  certain  ironical 
humour  in  such  banal  intervention.  But  it's  far 
too  mysterious  to  be  called  funny.  After  that 
I  struggled  no  more  against  the  stream.  I  drifted  ; 
I  was  carried  down  the  great  ocean  of  love.  But  I 
never  once  faltered  in  my  high  resolve  to  keep  that 
ocean  pure,  and 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Ocean  ?    What  ocean  ? 

Lady  Patricia. 
The  ocean  of  love. 


LADY   PATRICIA  191 

Mes.  O'Farrel. 
Sorry  ;    my  fault. 

Lady  Patricia. 

To  keep  that  ocean  pure,  and  come  what  might, 
to  shield  Michael  from  the  least  suspicion  that  his 
wonderful  love  was  not  returned.  Deceit?  Oh, 
yes  [  But  surely,  surely  deceit  is  justified  when 
the  alternative  means — death  ! 

Dean. 

Death  !     Dear  me  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Do  you  really  think  poor  Michael  would  succumb 
if  he  learned  the  dreadful  truth  ? 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  know  it.  Have  you  ever  seen  such  devotion 
as  his  ? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

It's  certainly  remarkable.    ... 

Dean. 

(Briskly.)  Now,  Lady  Patricia,  are  you  pre- 
pared to  put  yourself  unreservedly  in  my  hands  ? 

Lady  Patricia. 
I  am. 

Dean. 

Then  I  shall  require  two  things  of  you.  Firstly, 
that  you  break  off  these  relations  with  young 
O'Farrel. 


192  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  have  determined  on  that  already.  I  won't  speak 
of  the  suffering  it  will  cause  me.  I  have  merited 
suffering  and  will  bear  it  in  silence.     But  when  I 

think  of  him !     My  poor,  poor  boy  !     What  is 

to  become  of  him  without  me?  .  .  .  Oh,  you  are 
his  mother — can  you  devise  no  means  of  softening 
this  blow  for  him? 

Mrs.  0 'Parrel. 

(Reverently.)  I  think  we  may  safely  leave  that 
in  the  hands  of  Providence. 

Dean. 

I  quite  share  your  opinion.  Secondly,  Lady 
Patricia,  I  wish  you  to  tell  your  husband  every- 
thing. 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Genuinely  startled.)    Michael ! 

Dean. 

Everything. 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Very  much  in  earnest.)  No — no.  It's  im- 
possible.    I  could  never  think  of  doing  that. 

Dean. 

You  said  just  now  you  would  place  yourself 
unreservedly  in  my  hands. 

Lady  Patricia. 

But  I  never  dreamt  you  intended  to  punish  the 


LADY  PATRICIA  193 

innocent  for  my  sin.  .Why  should  Michael's  life 
and  happiness  be  blighted  because  I've  strayed 
from  righteousness  ? 

^ES.    O'FAEEEL. 

I  think  it's  just  possible  Michael  may  survive 
the  shock. 

Lady  Pateicia. 

And  I  know  that  it  will  kill  him.  It's 
impossible  ! 

Dean. 

{Sternly.)    I  insist. 

Lady  Pateicia. 
And  I  refuse. 

Mes.  Q'Eaeeel. 

That  brings  me  into  the  fray  !  The  Dean,  as 
your  confessor,  no  doubt  considers  himself  bound 
to  keep  your  story  secret.  I  don't.  So  look  here, 
Patricia  ;  unless  you  make  a  clean  breast  of  this 
to  Michael,  I  shall  go  to  him  with  it  myself. 

Lady  Pateicia. 
You! 

Mes.  O'Faeeel. 
I. 

Lady  Pateicia. 

No  !  No  !  I  don't  believe  you're  capable  of 
such  infamy. 

13 


194  LADY  PATRICIA 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
Oh,  yes  I  am. 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  don't  believe  it.  I  don't  believe  it  !  It  would 
be  too  cruel  and  wicked  !  Aunt  Eileen,  for  pity's 
sake 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

You  won't  get  any  pity  out  of  me,  my  dear — not 
an  ounce  !  Either  you  or  I  tell  Michael  the  story 
from  start  to  finish — and  if  1  tell  him,  there  won't 
be  much  left  of  your  character  when  I've  finished. 

Lady  Patricia. 

{Wildly.)  What  am  I  to  do?  What  am  I  to 
do?  Dean — Dean — will  you  allow  my  aunt  to 
wreak  her  horrible  vengeance  on  me  by  murdering 
my  husband  ? 

Dean. 

Oh,  but  really,  I  don't  think  it  will  be  quite  so 
bad  as  that. 

Lady  Patricia. 

But  I  know  it — I  know  it ! 

Dean. 

Besides,  how  am  I  to  prevent  her — even  if  I 
wished  to? 

Lady  Patricia. 

As  the  mouthpiece  of  spiritual  authority.    .   .    . 


LADY  PATRICIA  195 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

I  don't  care  a  rap  for  his  spiritual  authority. 

Dean. 

.You  see. 
(A  pause.    Lady  Patricia  stands  rigid,  with 
clenched  hands.     Finally  she  speaks  in  a 
low,  dull  voice.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

Then — ^you — ^really — mean — to — do — this? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
Certainly. 

Lady  Patricia. 
I — am — ruined . 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Nonsense  !     I've  a  strong  idea  this  may  be  the 
saving  of  you  both. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Euined.    ...  I  should  like  to  sit  down. 

1)ean. 

My  dear  lady (Brings  her  a  chair.) 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Sits,  and  points  blindly  to  the  breakfast  table.) 
Is  that   .    .    .  milk? 

PEAN. 

Yes.     Would  you 


196  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Pateicia. 

I  should  like  a  little  milk.  {The  Dean  gives  it 
to  her.)  Thank  you.  .  .  .  I— I  will  tell  Michael 
all. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Bravo  !     We  shall  make  a  woman  of  you  yet ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

You  are  very  hard  and  cruel  and  vindictive. 
.   .   .  But  I  forgive  you. 

(John  enters.) 
John. 

Mr.  Cosway  has  called,  sir. 
Lady  Patricia. 

{In  a  whisper.)     Michael ! 
Dean. 

Where  is  he? 
John. 

In   the  study,  sir. 
Dean. 

Lady  Patricia 

Lady  Patricia. 
No — no — no . 

Dean. 

Just  a  minute,  John. 
John. 

Yes,  sir.  {Retires  to  the  hack.) 


LADY  PATRICIA  197 

Lady  Pateicia. 

What  does  it  mean  ?     Why  is  he  here  ? 

Dean. 

He  said  he  might  call  this  morning  on  the  way 
to  church.  Lady  Patricia,  go  to  him  now.  Tell 
him  everything  now. 

Lady  Pateicia. 
I  can't — I  can't 

Mes.  O'Faeeel. 

Get  it  over,  Patricia. 

Dean. 

Come,  dear  lady 

(He  offers  her  his  arm.  Lady  Pateicia  rises 
unsteadily,  stares  for  a  moment  wildly 
before  her,  then  sits  down  again,) 

Lady  Pateicia. 

I  haven't  the  strength — I  haven't  the  strength  to 
go  to  him.  .  .  .  My  knees  tremble.  Bring  hini 
here  and  leave  us  together.   .    .    . 

Dean. 

(Calling.)     John. 

(John  re-enters.) 
John. 

Yes  sir? 

Dean. 

Ask  Mr.  Cosway  to  come  here. 


198  LADY  PATRICIA 

John. 

Yes  sir.  (JoHN  goes  out.) 

Mrs,  OTarrel. 

Cheer  up,  Patricia  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

A  little  since  and  I  was  glad,  but  now 
I  never  shall  he  glad  or  sad  again,   .   .   /" 

Dean. 

I — er — beg  your  pardon  ? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Swinburne.  .  .  .  For  the  last  time — for  the  last 
time,  Aunt  Eileen,  I  ask  you  to  spare  me. 

Dean. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  we  had  better 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

No  !  Don't  be  a  fool.  Dean  !  No,  Patricia, 
you've  got  to  go  through  with  this.  Believe  me, 
the  result  will  astonish  you. 

Lady  Patricia. 

What  do  you  mean? 

(Michael  enters  from  the  house.) 

Dean. 

Ah,  good  morning,  Cosway. 

Michael. 

(Standing  still  at  the  back  and  looking  at  Lady 


LADY  PATRICIA  199 

Pateicia  with  startled  eyes ;  whispers . )    Patricia  I 
,   .    .  Have  you  told  her? 

Dean. 
Hsh! 

(Without  greeting  Mrs.  O'Farrel  he  goes  to 
Patricia,  who  stares  straight  before  her.) 

Michael. 

Patricia,    dearest.    .    .    .  I— I    didn't    expect    to 
find  you  here. 

Lady  Patricia. 
Nor— I— you.   .   .   . 

Dean. 

Lady  Patricia  wants  to  speak  to  you  privately. 
iWe— er— will  leave  you  together. 

Michael. 

(In  a  whisper ,)    Privately? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Good  morning,  Michael. 

Michael. 

Er — good  morning. 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Delightful  weather  ! 

Michael. 

Yes — er — ver — very  nice. 


200  LADY  PATRICIA 

Mes.  O'Farrel. 

Come  along,  Dean.     J^Talces  his  arm  and  leads 
him  to  the  house,) 

Dean. 

(As  they  go  in.)     Poor  woman  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Fiddlesticks  !  (They  go  into  the  house.) 

Michael. 

You — you   look  so   white   and  strange,   dearest. 
Are  you  ill    .    .    .   Patricia? 

Lady  Patricia. 

I  am  thirsty.    .    .    .  My  throat  is  parched.    .    .   . 
Please  give  me  some  milk.   .    .    . 

Michael. 

Milk?   .   .    .  Yes,    dear.       (Moves    towards    the 
house.)     I'll  be  back  in  a  moment. 

Lady  Patricia. 

No — no.    It  is  on  the  table. 

Michael. 

.The  milk?   .   .    .  Oh,  yes.     I  see. 

(Pours  her  out  inadvertently  some  of  the  hot 
milk  for  the  coffee,  and  kneeling  at  her 
side,  offers  it  to  her.) 


Lady  Patricia. 

(Taking  milk.)     Don't  kneel  to  me — don't  kneel 
to  me  !      (She  takes  a  sip  of  milk  and  hands  it 


LADY  PATRICIA  201 

hack  to  him  with  a  wry  face.)     It  is  boiled.    .   .    . 
(He  places  it  hack  on  the  table.) 

Michael. 

{Returning  to  her.)    Patricia  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

No — no — no — no  !  Don't  look  at  me — don't  touch 
me — stand  up — stand  away  from  me.   .    .    . 

Michael. 
Patricia  ! 

Lady  Patricia. 
Do  as  I  say. 

Michael. 

{Getting  to  his  feet  with  a  terrified  face.)  They 
— they  have  told  you — they 

Lady  Patricia. 

Hush  !    .    .    .   don't  speak.    Give  me  time.    .    .   . 
I — I  am  a  broken  woman. 

Michael. 

No,  no,  no  !     I  will  cherish  you — I  will  worship 
you — I  will  serve  you  on  my  knees 

Lady  Patricia. 

(Genuinely  puzzled.)    Michael  ! 

Michael. 

All    the    rest    of    my    life — every    hour — every 
moment — will  be  given  to  making  up  for  my  sin. 


202  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Pateicia. 

(Amazed.)     Your  sin? 

Michael. 

My  crime  then. 

Lady  Pateicia. 
Your / 

Michael. 

(Pouring  forth  the  words  in  a  torrent  of 
passionate  entreaty.  Lady  Pateicia  stands  star- 
ing at  him  first  in  bewilderment,  then  in  amaze- 
ment, then  in  dawning  comprehension,  finally  in 
arctic  realisation.)  It  was  cruel  of  them — it  was 
unfair  to  steal  a  march  on  me  like  this.  For  your 
sake — for  mine — they  should  have  left  the  confes- 
sion to  me.  I  would  have  withheld  nothing.  I 
would  have  told  you  all  of  my  own  free  will.  But 
they've  spoken.  And  I  see  it — they've  put  the 
vilest  construction  on  the  few  words  they  over- 
heard last  night.  They  have  made  you  believe  the 
worst  of  me.  But  it's  not  true,  Patricia.  I  swear 
it.  It's  not  true.  (Lady  Pateicia  makes  a 
gesture  as  though  to  speak.)  No,  no,  let  me  speak  1 
...  I  have  been  faithful  to  the  letter  of  our 
marriage  vow — I  have  been  unfaithful  to  the  spirit. 
I  am  a  man  with  a  man's  passions,  but  for  your 
sake  I  fought  and  kept  my  sinful  love  pure.  Doubt 
all  else — but  believe  that.  You  must  believe  it. 
You  shall.  ...  I  am  not  trying  to  excuse  my- 
self. There  is  no  excuse  for  what  I  have  done. 
But  0,  Patricia,  you  know  that  to  love  and  not 


LADY  PATRICIA  203 

to  love  isn't  in  our  control.  And  if  I  never  loved 
you  with  all  the  passion  I  pretended  .  .  .  I'm 
really  deeply  attached  to  you.  It  was  for  your 
sake  I  pretended.  I  felt  it  might  kill  you  should 
you  ever  dream  that  your  wonderful  love  was  not 
returned  in  full  .  .  .  that  I  loved  .  .  .  else- 
where . 

Lady  Patricia. 

{In  a  cold,  level  voice.)  What  are  you  talking 
about  ? 

Michael. 

(Floored.)    Eh   ...    ? 

Lady  Patricia. 

You  appear  to  be  under  the  impression  that  the 
Dean  and  Aunt  Eileen  have  told  me  something 
unpleasant  about  you. 

Michael. 

Well,  haven't  they? 

Lady  Patricia. 

They  have  told  me  nothing. 

Michael. 

Oh.    .    .    .   I — I  thought  they  had.    .    .    . 

Lady  Patricia. 

And  now  perhaps  you  will  kindly  explain  the 
meaning  of  all  this. 

Michael. 

I — I've  told  you  everything. 


204  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Patricia. 
Who  is  the  woman? 

Michael. 

Clare  Lesley. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Clare — Lesley  !  .  .  .  I  don't  believe  it — it's 
impossible.  I  don't  believe  it  !  .  .  .  (Michael 
is  silent.)  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
don't  adore  me? 

Michael. 

I'm — I'm  very  fond  of  you. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Fond  of  me?  Then  all  your  passion  has  been 
a  sham,  and  you've  been  making  love  to  that — 
that — oh,  what  is  the  horrible  word?   .    .    . 

Michael. 

(Deferentially.)     Er— impossible   .   .    .    ? 

Lady  Patricia. 

No — no   .    .   .  with  two   "  p's."    .    .    . 

Michael. 

Appalling   .    .    .    ? 

Lady  Patricia. 

No.  .  .  .  Flapper.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  I've  been 
fooled  !  And  they  know  it — the  Dean  and  Aunt 
Eileen.  You've  made  me  a  figure  of  fun — some- 
thing to  point  and  jeer  at.  .  .  .Oh,  I  could 
kill  myself  and — you  ! 


LADY  PATRICIA  205 

Michael. 

I  am  not  worthy  to  live. 

Lady  Patricia. 

And  to  think  of  all  I  have  gone  through  for 
your  sake — how  I've  forced  myself  to  take  your 
kisses  and  return  them — how  for  months  and 
months  I  fought  and  struggled  to  keep  down  the 
one  great  passion  of  my  life.  All  for  your  sake — 
all  because  I  thought  you  loved  me  !  Oh,  the 
bitter  irony  of  it  ! 

Michael. 

What  do  you  mean  by  this? 

Lady  Patricia. 

But  now  the  one  obstacle  to  my  love  has  been 
removed.  I  will  go  to  him  now — I  will  put  my 
arms  around  him.  He  shall  love  me  and  I  will 
love  him. 

Michael. 

What  are  you  saying,  Patricia?  Are  you  mad? 
Of  whom  are  you  speaking? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Bill.  Bill  O'Farrel— Bill,  whom  I  love  and  who 
loves  me. 

Michael. 

Bill  O'Farrel ! 

Lady  Patricia. 

For  two  years  he  has  been  the  passion  of  my 


206  LADY  PATRICIA 

eoul.  He  will  now  become  my  heart's  delight. 
lYes,  Michael,  you  have  taken  my  wonderful  and 
unrequited  love  for  you  too  much  for  granted. 
lYou  have  played  the  infatuated  husband  so 
artistically  that  I  believed  in  it  to  the  extent  of 
playing  the  infatuated  wife  in  return. 

Michael. 
You! 

Lady  Patricia. 

Yes,  I  !  I  remained  with  you — I  pretended  to 
be  absorbed  in  you,  because  I  thought  it  would 
kill  you  if  you  realised  that  I  wanted  something 
more  than  you. 

Michael. 

Bill  O'Farrel.    .   .   . 

Lady  Patricia. 

Yes— Bill  O'Farrel  ! 

Michael. 

Does  any  one  know  of  this? 

Lady  Patricia. 
They  ail  know. 

Michael. 

That  you've  tricked  and  fooled  me  and  piade 
a  laughing-stock  of  me?     Oh 

Lady  Patricia. 

What  have  you  done  with  me? 


LADY  PATRICIA  207 

Michael. 

.When  did  they  find  it  out  ? 

Lady  Pateicia. 

They  overheard  us  last  night. 

Michael. 

You  and  O'Farrel? 

Lady  Patricia. 

,Yes. 

Michael. 

In  the  tree — when  they  overheard  us? 

Lady  Patricia. 

lYou,  too  !  Ah,  I  see  it  all  now — I  see  it  all. 
She  said  I  must  confess  to  you — that  aunt — 
she  said  the  result  would  astonish  me.  And  now 
— now  she's  hugging  herself  with  vindictive  joy  at 
having  humiliated  me  to  the  dust.  But  she  has 
not  finished  with  me  yet.  No  !  I  can  still  strike 
back — and  strike  I  will !  You  have  no  love  for 
me.     Very  well.     I  know  where  to  go  for  love. 

Michael. 

What  do  you  mean? 

Lady  Patricia. 

Bill  loves  me — he  loves  me — he  worships  me. 
I  shall  go  to  him — I  shall  hold  him  to  me — I  shall 
love  him. 

Michael. 
I  forbid  it. 


208  LADY  PATRICIA 

Lady  Pateicia. 

Who  are  you  to  forbid  me  ? 

Michael. 

I  am  your  husband. 

Lady  Pateicia. 

You  !     You  are  no  husband  of  mine  1     He  is  my 
husband  because  he  loves  me  ! 

Michael. 

If  you  go  to  him,  I  will  return  to  Clare. 

Lady  Pateicia. 
To  Clare  ! 

Michael. 

To  the  girl  who  loves  me  with  all  the  strength 
of  her  young  heart  and  soul. 

Lady  Pateicia. 

lYou  shall  never  do  that ! 

Michael. 

And  who's  to  prevent  me? 

Lady  Pateicia. 
I. 

Michael. 

You — the   woman   who   has   tricked   me — fooled 
me,  and  now  threatens  to  leave  me  for  another  ! 

Lady  Pateicia. 

Threatens  !     I  don't  threaten.     I  mean  to  do  it. 


LADY  PATRICIA  209 

Michael. 

Very  well,  then.     Leave  me  to  go  my  own  way. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Go  to  her.     Go  to  her.     And  I  will  go  to  him. 

(She  turns  and  moves  towards  the  house.  He 
takes  a  step  or  two  to  the  left,  then  stops 
with  an  exclamation.) 

Michael. 
Clare !   .   .   . 

Lady  Patricia. 

(She  turns,  holes  to  the  left,  and  starts  with  a 
faint  cry.)     Bill ! 

(They  both  stand  irresolute  and  embarrassed. 
Bill  and  Clare  enter  from  the  left,  also 
irresolute  and  embarrassed.) 
Bill. 

Er— good  morning,  Cousin  Patricia. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Good  morning,  Bill.  i    , 

Clare. 

Good  morning,  Mr.  Cosway. 

Michael. 

Good  morning,  Clare. 

Bill. 

(A  pause.     He  says  in  a  whisper  to  Clare  :) 
I  say — you  tell  them. 

14 


210  LADY  PATRICIA 

Clare. 

{In  a  whisper.)     No— you. 
Bill. 

Awfully— er— jolly  morning,  Cousin  Patricia, 
isn't  it. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Yes   .    .    .  very   .    .    .  jolly. 

Clare. 

I've  been  for — for  a  walk,  Mr.  Cosway. 

Michael. 

Oh,  yes — ^it's  nice  weather  for  walking.  Are 
you  tired  ? 

Clare. 

Oh,  no,  thank  you.  {To  Bill  in  a  whisper:) 
Tell  them.    .   .   . 

Bill. 

I  say   ...  I  say,  Michael. 

Michael. 
Sir? 

Bill. 

You'll  be  glad— I  mean  you'll  be  awfully  sur- 
prised to  hear  that  I — ^that  Clare  and  I — that's  to 
say,  that  we're — Clare  and  I,  you  know^ 

Clare. 

{ln^  a  whisper.)    Oh,  get  it  out  I 


LADY  PATRICIA  211 

Bill. 

Well,  you  see — we're  engaged. 

Lady  Patricia  and  Michael. 
Engaged  ! 

Bill. 

Yes.    We  hadn*t  meant  to  be — but  ...  we  are. 

Clare. 

We  tried  awfully  hard  to  hold  out  for — for  the 
sake  of  others   .    .   .  but 

(She  goes  impulsively  up  to  Michael,  puts 
her  hand  on  his  arm  and  speaks  in  a  low 
voice.) 

I'm  awfully  sorry,  Mike.     I'm  a  beast,  I  know. 
But  I  can't  help  it.    .    .    . 

Michael. 

(Rigid  and  staring  before  him.)    How  long  have 
you  loved  him  ? 

Clare. 

Oh   .    .    .   ages   ...   I  ought  to  have  told  you, 
but 

Michael. 

I  don't  wish  to  hear  another  word. 

(Bill  has  gone  up  to  Lady  Patricia,  who 
stands  motionless  with  a  tragic  face, 
staring  before  her.  His  appearance  is  that 
of  a  naughty  schoolboy,  hat  in  hand  and 
shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other.) 


212  LADY  PATRICIA 

Bill'. 

{To  Lady  Patkicia . )  I— I— I— I'm  sorry— I've 
behaved  rottenly— but  I— I— I'm  awfullj  fond  of 
you.  ...  Of  course  I  ought — but  you  see — I — 
that's  to  say— but  she— she's — you  know  what  I 
mean — I'm 

Lady  Patricia. 
Enough.    .   .    . 

(Bill  goes  to  Clare,  who  gives  him  her 
hand.) 

Clare. 

Now  for  the  pater.    ... 

Bill. 

Help!  ... 

{They  go  into  the  house.  MICHAEL  and  Lady 
Patricia  stand  motionless ,  with  clenched 
hands,  staring  before  them.  A  long  pause. 
The  gateway  hell  rings.  A  pause,  John 
enters  from  the  house  and  opens  the  ivicJcet 
door.     Baldwin  enters.) 

Baldwin. 

'Scuse  me,  Mr.  John,  but  I  think  as  I  lef  my 
'ymn-book  and  prayer-book  on  the  lawn. 

John. 

I  haven't  seen  'em. 

Baldwin. 

That's  them  yonder.     {Distant  sound  of  church 


LADY  PATRICIA  213 

bells.)  Lord,  if  that  ain't  the  first  bell !  (JOHN 
goes  out.)  Beg  pardon,  m'lady.  Beg  pardon, 
sir.  I  jest  want  my  prayer-book  an'  'ymn-book. 
(Picks  them  up.)  Thank  'ee,  m'lady.  They  was 
given  me  by  Mrs.  Baldwin  as  was  me  first  wife. 
I  thought  as  'ow  I'd  lef  them  on  'er  grave  jest 
now  when  I  went  to  'ave  a  look  at  it.     But 

Michael. 

That  will  do,  Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

Thank  'ee,  sir. 
(He  is  just  about  to  go  out  when  the  house 
door  opens  and  the  ringing  laughter  of 
Bill  and  Clare  brings  him  to  a  stand- 
still. They  enter y  followed  by  the  voice 
of  Mrs.  O'Farrel:  "Be  off— both  of 
you  !  "  and  her  laugh.) 

Bill. 

I  say,  darling,  weren't  they  corking? 

Clare. 

(Pointing  to  the  motionless  Michael  and  Lady 
Patricia  and  putting  a  finger  to  her  lips.) 
S-sh!  .   .   . 

Bill. 
Oh.  .  .  . 

(Very  sedately  they  pass  up  the  path  to  the 
gateway,  but  just  as  they  go  out  Bill 
passes    his    arm    through    Clare's    and 


214  LADY  PATRICIA 

squeezes  it.  They  disappear,  Mrs. 
O'Farrel  and  the  Dean  enter  from  the 
house,  followed  later  by  John  and 
Egbert.) 

Dean. 

(Jovially.)    So  much  for  tact  and  diplomacy  ! 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 
And  common -sense  ! 

Dean. 

(Lowering  his  voice  and  indicating  the  rigid 
Michael  and  Lady  Patricia.)    And  these  two? 

Mrs.  O'Farrel. 

Best  leave  them  alone. 

Dean. 

No,  no  !   .    .    . 
(Goes  up  to  Michael  and  Lady  Patricia, 
while  Mrs.   O'Farrel  goes  out;    John, 
standing    near    the    door,    waits    for    the 
Dean.) 

Are  you  not  going  to  join  us  in  church?  (A 
pause.)  My  dear  friends,  on  such  a  morning  as 
this  we  should  all  sing  the  Te  Deum,  and  forget 
everything  but  the  joy  of  being  alive.    .    .    . 

(He  looks  smilingly  from  one  to  the  other, 
then  goes  out,  followed  by  John.  Robert 
waits  at  the  door.  A  pause.  Baldwin 
stands  hesitating.  Lady  Patricia  turns 
to  Michael.) 


LADY   PATRICIA  215 

Lady  Patricia. 
Michael  !   .    .    . 

Michael. 
Yes. 

Lady  Patricia. 

Under  the  great  rose  window  in  the  south 
transept  our  pew  is  now  full  of  purple  and 
amber  lights  and  shafts  of  chrysoprase.  Shall 
we  not  sit  there  again  together? 

Michael. 

I  don't  see  what  else  there  is  to  do.  .  .  . 
Patricia  1 

Lady  Patricia. 

Michael !  .  .  .  Repentance  is  very  exquisite, 
and  how  beautiful  is  forgiveness.     Come.    .    .    . 

(Followed  at  a  respectful  distance  by  Baldwin, 
they  go  out  together  in  silence  side  by 
side,  and  the  Curtain  falls  as  they  pass 
under,  the  gateway.) 


The  End. 


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